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diff --git a/14851-h/14851-h.htm b/14851-h/14851-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5471ae2 --- /dev/null +++ b/14851-h/14851-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,22759 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> + + <title>Uncle Silas</title> + + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + p {text-align: justify;} + .note {text-align: left; text-indent: -3em;} + .closer {text-align: right; padding-right: 3em;} + .signature {text-align: right; padding-right: 1.5em;} + .date {text-align: right} + .place {text-align: right; padding-right: 5em;} + + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + pre {font-size: 0.7em;} + + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-right: 40%; margin-left: 40%; width: 20%;} + + ol {margin-left: 12.5%;} + + span + .smalltext {font-size: 0.68em;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt;} + + .poem + {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + + A:link {color: #660000;Background-Color: #FFFFFF;} + A:visited {color: #660066;Background-Color: #FFFFFF;} + A:hover {color: #000000;Background-Color: #FFFFFF;} + A:active {color: #FF0000;Background-Color: #FFFFFF;} + + .figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft + {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img, .figleft img + {border: none;} + .figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p + {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto;} + .figright {float: right;} + .figleft {float: left;} + + .footnote {font-size: 0.9em; margin-right: 10%; margin-left: 10%;} + + .side { float:right; + font-size: 75%; + width: 25%; + padding-left:10px; + border-left: dashed thin; + margin-left: 10px; + text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; + font-weight: bold; + font-style: italic;} + --> + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14851 ***</div> + +<p>[Transcriber's note: The spelling inconsistencies of the original have +been retained in this etext.]</p> + <p> </p> + <p> </p> + <h1>UNCLE SILAS</h1> + <h3>A Tale of Bartram-Haugh</h3> + <h3>By</h3> + <h2>J. S. LeFanu</h2> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page2" id="page2"></a></span> + + <h4>1899</h4> + <p> </p> + <p> </p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page3" id="page3"></a></span> + + <p> </p> + <h4>TO<br /> THE RIGHT HON.</h4> + <h2>THE COUNTESS OF GIFFORD,</h2> + <h4>AS A TOKEN OF<br /> RESPECT, SYMPATHY, AND ADMIRATION</h4> + <h3><i>This Tale</i></h3> + <h4>IS INSCRIBED BY</h4> + <h3>THE AUTHOR</h3> + <p> </p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page4" id="page4"></a>[pg xvii]</span> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2><i>A PRELIMINARY WORD</i></h2> + +<p>The writer of this Tale ventures, in his own person, to address +a very few words, chiefly of explanation, to his readers. A leading +situation in this 'Story of Bartram-Haugh' is repeated, with a +slight variation, from a short magazine tale of some fifteen pages +written by him, and published long ago in a periodical under +the title of 'A Passage in the Secret History of an Irish Countess,' +and afterwards, still anonymously, in a small volume under +an altered title. It is very unlikely that any of his readers should +have encountered, and still more so that they should remember, +this trifle. The bare possibility, however, he has ventured to +anticipate by this brief explanation, lest he should be charged +with plagiarism—always a disrespect to a reader.</p> + +<p>May he be permitted a few words also of remonstrance against +the promiscuous application of the term 'sensation' to that large +school of fiction which transgresses no one of those canons of +construction and morality which, in producing the unapproachable +'Waverley Novels,' their great author imposed upon himself? +No one, it is assumed, would describe Sir Walter Scott's +romances as 'sensation novels;' yet in that marvellous series there +is not a single tale in which death, crime, and, in some form, +mystery, have not a place.</p> + +<p>Passing by those grand romances of 'Ivanhoe,' 'Old Mortality,' +and 'Kenilworth,' with their terrible intricacies of crime and +bloodshed, constructed with so fine a mastery of the art of +exciting suspense and horror, let the reader pick out those two +exceptional novels in the series which profess to paint contemporary +manners and the scenes of common life; and remembering + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>[pg xviii]</span> + +in the 'Antiquary' the vision in the tapestried chamber, +the duel, the horrible secret, and the death of old Elspeth, the +drowned fisherman, and above all the tremendous situation of +the tide-bound party under the cliffs; and in 'St. Ronan's Well,' +the long-drawn mystery, the suspicion of insanity, and the +catastrophe of suicide;—determine whether an epithet which it +would be a profanation to apply to the structure of any, even +the most exciting of Sir Walter Scott's stories, is fairly applicable +to tales which, though illimitably inferior in execution, yet +observe the same limitations of incident, and the same moral +aims.</p> + +<p>The author trusts that the Press, to whose masterly criticism +and generous encouragement he and other humble labourers +in the art owe so much, will insist upon the limitation of that +degrading term to the peculiar type of fiction which it was +originally intended to indicate, and prevent, as they may, its +being made to include the legitimate school of tragic English +romance, which has been ennobled, and in great measure +founded, by the genius of Sir Walter Scott.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>[pg xix]</span> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<p>CHAPTER</p> + +<ol type="I"> + <li><a href="#chap01">AUSTIN RUTHYN, OF KNOWL, AND HIS DAUGHTER</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap02">UNCLE SILAS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap03">A NEW FACE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap04">MADAME DE LA ROUGIERRE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap05">SIGHTS AND NOISES</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap06">A WALK IN THE WOOD</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap07">CHURCH SCARSDALE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap08">THE SMOKER</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap09">MONICA KNOLLYS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap10">LADY KNOLLYS REMOVES A COVERLET</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap11">LADY KNOLLYS SEES THE FEATURES</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap12">A CURIOUS CONVERSATION</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap13">BEFORE AND AFTER BREAKFAST</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap14">ANGRY WORDS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap15">A WARNING</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap16">DOCTOR BRYERLY LOOKS IN</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap17">AN ADVENTURE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap18">A MIDNIGHT VISITOR</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap19">AU REVOIR</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap20">AUSTIN RUTHYN SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap21">ARRIVALS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap22">SOMEBODY IN THE ROOM WITH THE COFFIN</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap23">I TALK WITH DOCTOR BRYERLY</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap24">THE OPENING OF THE WILL</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap25">I HEAR FROM UNCLE SILAS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap26">THE STORY OF UNCLE SILAS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap27">MORE ABOUT TOM CHARKE'S SUICIDE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap28">I AM PERSUADED</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap29">HOW THE AMBASSADOR FARED</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap30">ON THE ROAD</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap31">BARTRAM-HAUGH</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap32">UNCLE SILAS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap33">THE WINDMILL WOOD</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap34">ZAMIEL</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap35">WE VISIT A ROOM IN THE SECOND STOREY</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap36">AN ARRIVAL AT DEAD OF NIGHT</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap37">DOCTOR BRYERLY EMERGES</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap38">A MIDNIGHT DEPARTURE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap39">COUSIN MONICA AND UNCLE SILAS MEET</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap40">IN WHICH I MAKE ANOTHER COUSIN'S ACQUAINTANCE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap41">MY COUSIN DUDLEY</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap42">ELVERSTON AND ITS PEOPLE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap43">NEWS AT BARTRAM GATE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap44">A FRIEND ARISES</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap45">A CHAPTER-FULL OF LOVERS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap46">THE RIVALS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap47">DOCTOR BRYERLY REAPPEARS</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap48">QUESTION AND ANSWER</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap49">AN APPARITION</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap50">MILLY'S FAREWELL</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap51">SARAH MATILDA COMES TO LIGHT</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap52">THE PICTURE OF A WOLF</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap53">AN ODD PROPOSAL</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap54">IN SEARCH OF MR. CHARKE'S SKELETON</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap55">THE FOOT OF HERCULES</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap56">I CONSPIRE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap57">THE LETTER</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap58">LADY KNOLLYS' CARRIAGE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap59">A SUDDEN DEPARTURE</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap60">THE JOURNEY</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap61">OUR BED-CHAMBER</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap62">A WELL-KNOWN FACE LOOKS IN</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap63">SPICED CLARET</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap64">THE HOUR OF DEATH</a></li> + <li><a href="#chap65">IN THE OAK PARLOUR</a></li> + <li><a href="#conclusion">CONCLUSION</a></li> +</ol> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>[pg xxi]</span> + +<p> </p> +<h1>UNCLE SILAS</h1> + +<h3>A Tale of Bartram-Haugh</h3> +<p> </p> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>[pg 1]</span> + +<a name="chap01"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<h2><i>AUSTIN RUTHYN, OF KNOWL, +AND HIS DAUGHTER</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>It was winter—that is, about the second week in November—and +great gusts were rattling at the windows, and wailing and thundering +among our tall trees and ivied chimneys—a very dark +night, and a very cheerful fire blazing, a pleasant mixture of +good round coal and spluttering dry wood, in a genuine old +fireplace, in a sombre old room. Black wainscoting glimmered +up to the ceiling, in small ebony panels; a cheerful clump of +wax candles on the tea-table; many old portraits, some grim +and pale, others pretty, and some very graceful and charming, +hanging from the walls. Few pictures, except portraits long +and short, were there. On the whole, I think you would have +taken the room for our parlour. It was not like our modern +notion of a drawing-room. It was a long room too, and every +way capacious, but irregularly shaped.</p> + +<p>A girl, of a little more than seventeen, looking, I believe, +younger still; slight and rather tall, with a great deal of golden +hair, dark grey-eyed, and with a countenance rather sensitive +and melancholy, was sitting at the tea-table, in a reverie. I was +that girl.</p> + +<p>The only other person in the room—the only person in the +house related to me—was my father. He was Mr. Ruthyn, of +Knowl, so called in his county, but he had many other places, +was of a very ancient lineage, who had refused a baronetage +often, and it was said even a viscounty, being of a proud and +defiant spirit, and thinking themselves higher in station and +purer of blood than two-thirds of the nobility into whose +ranks, it was said, they had been invited to enter. Of all this +family lore I knew but little and vaguely; only what is to be +gathered from the fireside talk of old retainers in the nursery.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>[pg 02]</span> + +<p>I am sure my father loved me, and I know I loved him. With +the sure instinct of childhood I apprehended his tenderness, +although it was never expressed in common ways. But my +father was an oddity. He had been early disappointed in Parliament, +where it was his ambition to succeed. Though a clever +man, he failed there, where very inferior men did extremely +well. Then he went abroad, and became a connoisseur and a +collector; took a part, on his return, in literary and scientific +institutions, and also in the foundation and direction of some +charities. But he tired of this mimic government, and gave himself +up to a country life, not that of a sportsman, but rather of +a student, staying sometimes at one of his places and sometimes +at another, and living a secluded life.</p> + +<p>Rather late in life he married, and his beautiful young wife +died, leaving me, their only child, to his care. This bereavement, +I have been told, changed him—made him more odd and +taciturn than ever, and his temper also, except to me, more +severe. There was also some disgrace about his younger brother—my +uncle Silas—which he felt bitterly.</p> + +<p>He was now walking up and down this spacious old room, +which, extending round an angle at the far end, was very dark +in that quarter. It was his wont to walk up and down thus, +without speaking—an exercise which used to remind me of +Chateaubriand's father in the great chamber of the Château +de Combourg. At the far end he nearly disappeared in the +gloom, and then returning emerged for a few minutes, like a +portrait with a background of shadow, and then again in silence +faded nearly out of view.</p> + +<p>This monotony and silence would have been terrifying to a +person less accustomed to it than I. As it was, it had its effect. +I have known my father a whole day without once speaking to +me. Though I loved him very much, I was also much in awe of +him.</p> + +<p>While my father paced the floor, my thoughts were employed +about the events of a month before. So few things happened at +Knowl out of the accustomed routine, that a very trifling occurrence +was enough to set people wondering and conjecturing +in that serene household. My father lived in remarkable seclusion; +except for a ride, he hardly ever left the grounds of Knowl; + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>[pg 03]</span> + +and I don't think it happened twice in the year that a visitor +sojourned among us.</p> + +<p>There was not even that mild religious bustle which sometimes +besets the wealthy and moral recluse. My father had left +the Church of England for some odd sect, I forget its name, and +ultimately became, I was told, a Swedenborgian. But he did not +care to trouble me upon the subject. So the old carriage brought +my governess, when I had one, the old housekeeper, Mrs. Rusk, +and myself to the parish church every Sunday. And my father, +in the view of the honest rector who shook his head over him—'a +cloud without water, carried about of winds, and a wandering +star to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness'—corresponded +with the 'minister' of his church, and was provokingly +contented with his own fertility and illumination; and Mrs. +Rusk, who was a sound and bitter churchwoman, said he fancied +he saw visions and talked with angels like the rest of that +'rubbitch.'</p> + +<p>I don't know that she had any better foundation than analogy +and conjecture for charging my father with supernatural pretensions; +and in all points when her orthodoxy was not concerned, +she loved her master and was a loyal housekeeper.</p> + +<p>I found her one morning superintending preparations for the +reception of a visitor, in the hunting-room it was called, from +the pieces of tapestry that covered its walls, representing scenes +<i>à la Wouvermans</i>, of falconry, and the chase, dogs, hawks, +ladies, gallants, and pages. In the midst of whom Mrs. Rusk, +in black silk, was rummaging drawers, counting linen, and issuing +orders.</p> + +<p>'Who is coming, Mrs. Rusk?'</p> + +<p>Well, she only knew his name. It was a Mr. Bryerly. My papa +expected him to dinner, and to stay for some days.</p> + +<p>'I guess he's one of those creatures, dear, for I mentioned his +name just to Dr. Clay (the rector), and he says there <i>is</i> a Doctor +Bryerly, a great conjurer among the Swedenborg sect—and +that's him, I do suppose.'</p> + +<p>In my hazy notions of these sectaries there was mingled a suspicion +of necromancy, and a weird freemasonry, that inspired +something of awe and antipathy.</p> + +<p>Mr. Bryerly arrived time enough to dress at his leisure, before +dinner. He entered the drawing-room—a tall, lean man, all + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12" id="page12"></a>[pg 04]</span> + +in ungainly black, with a white choker, with either a black wig, or +black hair dressed in imitation of one, a pair of spectacles, +and a dark, sharp, short visage, rubbing his large hands together, +and with a short brisk nod to me, whom he plainly regarded +merely as a child, he sat down before the fire, crossed his legs, +and took up a magazine.</p> + +<p>This treatment was mortifying, and I remember very well the +resentment of which <i>he</i> was quite unconscious.</p> + +<p>His stay was not very long; not one of us divined the object +of his visit, and he did not prepossess us favourably. He seemed +restless, as men of busy habits do in country houses, and took +walks, and a drive, and read in the library, and wrote half a +dozen letters.</p> + +<p>His bed-room and dressing-room were at the side of the +gallery, directly opposite to my father's, which had a sort of ante-room +<i>en suite</i>, in which were some of his theological books.</p> + +<p>The day after Mr. Bryerly's arrival, I was about to see whether +my father's water caraffe and glass had been duly laid on the +table in this ante-room, and in doubt whether he was there, I +knocked at the door.</p> + +<p>I suppose they were too intent on other matters to hear, but +receiving no answer, I entered the room. My father was sitting +in his chair, with his coat and waistcoat off, Mr. Bryerly kneeling +on a stool beside him, rather facing him, his black scratch +wig leaning close to my father's grizzled hair. There was a large +tome of their divinity lore, I suppose, open on the table close +by. The lank black figure of Mr. Bryerly stood up, and he concealed +something quickly in the breast of his coat.</p> + +<p>My father stood up also, looking paler, I think, than I ever +saw him till then, and he pointed grimly to the door, and said, +'Go.'</p> + +<p>Mr. Bryerly pushed me gently back with his hands to my +shoulders, and smiled down from his dark features with an expression +quite unintelligible to me.</p> + +<p>I had recovered myself in a second, and withdrew without a +word. The last thing I saw at the door was the tall, slim figure +in black, and the dark, significant smile following me: and then +the door was shut and locked, and the two Swedenborgians were +left to their mysteries.</p> + +<p>I remember so well the kind of shock and disgust I felt in + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>[pg 05]</span> + +the certainty that I had surprised them at some, perhaps, debasing +incantation—a suspicion of this Mr. Bryerly, of the ill-fitting +black coat, and white choker—and a sort of fear came +upon me, and I fancied he was asserting some kind of mastery +over my father, which very much alarmed me.</p> + +<p>I fancied all sorts of dangers in the enigmatical smile of the +lank high-priest. The image of my father, as I had seen him, it +might be, confessing to this man in black, who was I knew not +what, haunted me with the disagreeable uncertainties of a mind +very uninstructed as to the limits of the marvellous.</p> + +<p>I mentioned it to no one. But I was immensely relieved when +the sinister visitor took his departure the morning after, and +it was upon this occurrence that my mind was now employed.</p> + +<p>Some one said that Dr. Johnson resembled a ghost, who must +be spoken to before it will speak. But my father, in whatever +else he may have resembled a ghost, did not in that particular; +for no one but I in his household—and I very seldom—dared to +address him until first addressed by him. I had no notion how +singular this was until I began to go out a little among friends +and relations, and found no such rule in force anywhere else.</p> + +<p>As I leaned back in my chair thinking, this phantasm of my +father came, and turned, and vanished with a solemn regularity. +It was a peculiar figure, strongly made, thick-set, with a face +large, and very stern; he wore a loose, black velvet coat and +waistcoat. It was, however, the figure of an elderly rather than +an old man—though he was then past seventy—but firm, and +with no sign of feebleness.</p> + +<p>I remember the start with which, not suspecting that he was +close by me, I lifted my eyes, and saw that large, rugged countenance +looking fixedly on me, from less than a yard away.</p> + +<p>After I saw him, he continued to regard me for a second or +two; and then, taking one of the heavy candlesticks in his +gnarled hand, he beckoned me to follow him; which, in silence +and wondering, I accordingly did.</p> + +<p>He led me across the hall, where there were lights burning, +and into a lobby by the foot of the back stairs, and so into his +library.</p> + +<p>It is a long, narrow room, with two tall, slim windows at the +far end, now draped in dark curtains. Dusky it was with but one +candle; and he paused near the door, at the left-hand side of + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>[pg 06]</span> + +which stood, in those days, an old-fashioned press or cabinet of +carved oak. In front of this he stopped.</p> + +<p>He had odd, absent ways, and talked more to himself, I believe, +than to all the rest of the world put together.</p> + +<p>'She won't understand,' he whispered, looking at me enquiringly. +'No, she won't. <i>Will</i> she?'</p> + +<p>Then there was a pause, during which he brought forth +from his breast pocket a small bunch of some half-dozen keys, +on one of which he looked frowningly, every now and then +balancing it a little before his eyes, between his finger and +thumb, as he deliberated.</p> + +<p>I knew him too well, of course, to interpose a word.</p> + +<p>'They are easily frightened—ay, they are. I'd better do it +another way.'</p> + +<p>And pausing, he looked in my face as he might upon a picture.</p> + +<p>'They <i>are</i>—yes—I had better do it another way—another way; +yes—and she'll not suspect—she'll not suppose.'</p> + +<p>Then he looked steadfastly upon the key, and from it to me, +suddenly lifting it up, and said abruptly, 'See, child,' and, after +a second or two, '<i>Remember</i> this key.'</p> + +<p>It was oddly shaped, and unlike others.</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir.' I always called him 'sir.'</p> + +<p>'It opens that,' and he tapped it sharply on the door of the +cabinet. 'In the daytime it is always here,' at which word he +dropped it into his pocket again. 'You see?—and at night under +my pillow—you hear me?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir.'</p> + +<p>'You won't forget this cabinet—oak—next the door—on your +left—you won't forget?'</p> + +<p>'No, sir.'</p> + +<p>'Pity she's a girl, and so young—ay, a girl, and so young—no +sense—giddy. You say, you'll <i>remember</i>?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir.'</p> + +<p>'It behoves you.'</p> + +<p>He turned round and looked full upon me, like a man who +has taken a sudden resolution; and I think for a moment he had +made up his mind to tell me a great deal more. But if so, he +changed it again; and after another pause, he said slowly and +sternly—'You + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>[pg 07]</span> + +will tell nobody what I have said, under pain of my +displeasure.'</p> + +<p>'Oh! no, sir!'</p> + +<p>'Good child!'</p> + +<p>'<i>Except</i>,' he resumed, 'under one contingency; that is, in case +I should be absent, and Dr. Bryerly—you recollect the thin +gentleman, in spectacles and a black wig, who spent three days +here last month—should come and enquire for the key, you +understand, in my absence.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir.'</p> + +<p>So he kissed me on the forehead, and said—</p> + +<p>'Let us return.'</p> + +<p>Which, accordingly, we did, in silence; the storm outside, +like a dirge on a great organ, accompanying our flitting.</p> + +<a name="chap02"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<h2><i>UNCLE SILAS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>When we reached the drawing-room, I resumed my chair, and +my father his slow and regular walk to and fro, in the great +room. Perhaps it was the uproar of the wind that disturbed the +ordinary tenor of his thoughts; but, whatever was the cause, +certainly he was unusually talkative that night.</p> + +<p>After an interval of nearly half an hour, he drew near again, +and sat down in a high-backed arm-chair, beside the fire, and +nearly opposite to me, and looked at me steadfastly for some +time, as was his wont, before speaking; and said he—</p> + +<p>'This won't do—you must have a governess.'</p> + +<p>In cases of this kind I merely set down my book or work, as +it might be, and adjusted myself to listen without speaking.</p> + +<p>'Your French is pretty well, and your Italian; but you have +no German. Your music may be pretty good—I'm no judge—but +your drawing might be better—yes—yes. I believe there are +accomplished ladies—finishing governesses, they call them—who + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>[pg 08]</span> + +undertake more than any one teacher would have professed +in my time, and do very well. She can prepare you, and +next winter, then, you shall visit France and Italy, where you +may be accomplished as highly as you please.'</p> + +<p>'Thank you, sir.'</p> + +<p>'You shall. It is nearly six months since Miss Ellerton left +you—too long without a teacher.'</p> + +<p>Then followed an interval.</p> + +<p>'Dr. Bryerly will ask you about that key, and what it opens; +you show all that to <i>him</i>, and no one else.'</p> + +<p>'But,' I said, for I had a great terror of disobeying him in +ever so minute a matter, 'you will then be absent, sir—how am +I to find the key?'</p> + +<p>He smiled on me suddenly—a bright but wintry smile—it seldom +came, and was very transitory, and kindly though mysterious.</p> + +<p>'True, child; I'm glad you are so wise; <i>that</i>, you will find, I +have provided for, and you shall know exactly where to look. +You have remarked how solitarily I live. You fancy, perhaps, +I have not got a friend, and you are nearly right—<i>nearly</i>, but +not altogether. I have a very sure friend—<i>one</i>—a friend whom I +once misunderstood, but now appreciate.'</p> + +<p>I wondered silently whether it could be Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>'He'll make me a call, some day soon; I'm not quite sure +when. I won't tell you his name—you'll hear that soon enough, +and I don't want it talked of; and I must make a little journey +with him. You'll not be afraid of being left alone for a time?'</p> + +<p>'And have you promised, sir?' I answered, with another question, +my curiosity and anxiety overcoming my awe. He took +my questioning very good-humouredly.</p> + +<p>'Well—<i>promise</i>?—no, child; but I'm under condition; he's not +to be denied. I must make the excursion with him the moment +he calls. I have no choice; but, on the whole, I rather like it—remember, +I say, I rather <i>like</i> it.'</p> + +<p>And he smiled again, with the same meaning, that was at once +stern and sad. The exact purport of these sentences remained +fixed in my mind, so that even at this distance of time I am +quite sure of them.</p> + +<p>A person quite unacquainted with my father's habitually abrupt +and odd way of talking, would have fancied that he was possibly + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>[pg 09]</span> + +a little disordered in his mind. But no such suspicion for a +moment troubled me. I was quite sure that he spoke of a real +person who was coming, and that his journey was something +momentous; and when the visitor of whom he spoke did come, +and he departed with him upon that mysterious excursion, I +perfectly understood his language and his reasons for saying so +much and yet so little.</p> + +<p>You are not to suppose that all my hours were passed in the +sort of conference and isolation of which I have just given you a +specimen; and singular and even awful as were sometimes my +<i>tête-a-têtes</i> with my father, I had grown so accustomed to his +strange ways, and had so unbounded a confidence in his affection, +that they never depressed or agitated me in the manner +you might have supposed. I had a great deal of quite a different +sort of chat with good old Mrs. Rusk, and very pleasant talks +with Mary Quince, my somewhat ancient maid; and besides all +this, I had now and then a visit of a week or so at the house of +some one of our country neighbours, and occasionally a visitor—but +this, I must own, very rarely—at Knowl.</p> + +<p>There had come now a little pause in my father's revelations, +and my fancy wandered away upon a flight of discovery. Who, +I again thought, could this intending visitor be, who was to +come, armed with the prerogative to make my stay-at-home +father forthwith leave his household goods—his books and his +child—to whom he clung, and set forth on an unknown knight-errantry? +Who but Uncle Silas, I thought—that mysterious +relative whom I had never seen—who was, it had in old times +been very darkly hinted to me, unspeakably unfortunate or +unspeakably vicious—whom I had seldom heard my father mention, +and then in a hurried way, and with a pained, thoughtful +look. Once only he had said anything from which I could +gather my father's opinion of him, and then it was so slight +and enigmatical that I might have filled in the character very +nearly as I pleased.</p> + +<p>It happened thus. One day Mrs. Rusk was in the oak-room, I +being then about fourteen. She was removing a stain from a +tapestry chair, and I watched the process with a childish interest. +She sat down to rest herself—she had been stooping over her +work—and threw her head back, for her neck was weary, and in + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>[pg 10]</span> + +this position she fixed her eyes on a portrait that hung before +her.</p> + +<p>It was a full-length, and represented a singularly handsome +young man, dark, slender, elegant, in a costume then quite +obsolete, though I believe it was seen at the beginning of this +century—white leather pantaloons and top-boots, a buff waistcoat, and a +chocolate-coloured coat, and the hair long and +brushed back.</p> + +<p>There was a remarkable elegance and a delicacy in the features, +but also a character of resolution and ability that quite +took the portrait out of the category of mere fops or fine men. +When people looked at it for the first time, I have so often +heard the exclamation—'What a wonderfully handsome man!' +and then, 'What a clever face!' An Italian greyhound stood by +him, and some slender columns and a rich drapery in the background. +But though the accessories were of the luxurious sort, +and the beauty, as I have said, refined, there was a masculine +force in that slender oval face, and a fire in the large, shadowy +eyes, which were very peculiar, and quite redeemed it from the +suspicion of effeminacy.</p> + +<p>'Is not that Uncle Silas?' said I.</p> + +<p>'Yes, dear,' answered Mrs. Rusk, looking, with her resolute +little face, quietly on the portrait.</p> + +<p>'He must be a very handsome man, Mrs. Rusk. Don't you +think so?' I continued.</p> + +<p>'He <i>was</i>, my dear—yes; but it is forty years since that was +painted—the date is there in the corner, in the shadow that +comes from his foot, and forty years, I can tell you, makes a +change in most of us;' and Mrs. Rusk laughed, in cynical good-humour.</p> + +<p>There was a little pause, both still looking on the handsome +man in top-boots, and I said—</p> + +<p>'And why, Mrs. Rusk, is papa always so sad about Uncle +Silas?'</p> + +<p>'What's that, child?' said my father's voice, very near. I looked +round, with a start, and flushed and faltered, receding a step +from him.</p> + +<p>'No harm, dear. You have said nothing wrong,' he said gently, +observing my alarm. 'You said I was always sad, I think, about +Uncle Silas. Well, I don't know how you gather that; but if I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>[pg 11]</span> + +were, I will now tell you, it would not be unnatural. Your uncle +is a man of great talents, great faults, and great wrongs. His +talents have not availed him; his faults are long ago repented of; +and his wrongs I believe he feels less than I do, but they are +deep. Did she say any more, madam?' he demanded abruptly +of Mrs. Rusk.</p> + +<p>'Nothing, sir,' with a stiff little courtesy, answered Mrs. Rusk, +who stood in awe of him.</p> + +<p>'And there is no need, child,' he continued, addressing himself +to me, 'that you should think more of him at present. Clear +your head of Uncle Silas. One day, perhaps, you will know him—yes, +very well—and understand how villains have injured him.</p> + +<p>Then my father retired, and at the door he said—</p> + +<p>'Mrs. Rusk, a word, if you please,' beckoning to that lady, who +trotted after him to the library.</p> + +<p>I think he then laid some injunction upon the housekeeper, +which was transmitted by her to Mary Quince, for from that +time forth I could never lead either to talk with me about +Uncle Silas. They let me talk on, but were reserved and silent +themselves, and seemed embarrassed, and Mrs. Rusk sometimes +pettish and angry, when I pressed for information.</p> + +<p>Thus curiosity was piqued; and round the slender portrait +in the leather pantaloons and top-boots gathered many-coloured +circles of mystery, and the handsome features seemed to smile +down upon my baffled curiosity with a provoking significance.</p> + +<p>Why is it that this form of ambition—curiosity—which entered +into the temptation of our first parent, is so specially hard to +resist? Knowledge is power—and power of one sort or another +is the secret lust of human souls; and here is, beside the sense of +exploration, the undefinable interest of a story, and above all, +something forbidden, to stimulate the contumacious appetite.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>[pg 12]</span> + +<a name="chap03"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<h2><i>A NEW FACE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I think it was about a fortnight after that conversation in which +my father had expressed his opinion, and given me the mysterious charge +about the old oak cabinet in his library, as already +detailed, that I was one night sitting at the great drawing-room +window, lost in the melancholy reveries of night, and in admiration of the +moonlighted scene. I was the only occupant of the +room; and the lights near the fire, at its farther end, hardly +reached to the window at which I sat.</p> + +<p>The shorn grass sloped gently downward from the windows +till it met the broad level on which stood, in clumps, or solitarily +scattered, some of the noblest timber in England. Hoar in +the moonbeams stood those graceful trees casting their moveless +shadows upon the grass, and in the background crowning the +undulations of the distance, in masses, were piled those woods +among which lay the solitary tomb where the remains of my +beloved mother rested.</p> + +<p>The air was still. The silvery vapour hung serenely on the far +horizon, and the frosty stars blinked brightly. Everyone knows +the effect of such a scene on a mind already saddened. Fancies +and regrets float mistily in the dream, and the scene affects +us with a strange mixture of memory and anticipation, like +some sweet old air heard in the distance. As my eyes rested on +those, to me, funereal but glorious woods, which formed the +background of the picture, my thoughts recurred to my father's +mysterious intimations and the image of the approaching visitor; +and the thought of the unknown journey saddened me.</p> + +<p>In all that concerned his religion, from very early association, +there was to me something of the unearthly and spectral.</p> + +<p>When my dear mamma died I was not nine years old; and I +remember, two days before the funeral, there came to Knowl, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>[pg 13]</span> + +where she died, a thin little man, with large black eyes, and a +very grave, dark face.</p> + +<p>He was shut up a good deal with my dear father, who was in +deep affliction; and Mrs. Rusk used to say, 'It is rather odd to +see him praying with that little scarecrow from London, and +good Mr. Clay ready at call, in the village; much good that +little black whipper-snapper will do him!'</p> + +<p>With that little black man, on the day after the funeral, I was +sent out, for some reason, for a walk; my governess was ill, I +know, and there was confusion in the house, and I dare say the +maids made as much of a holiday as they could.</p> + +<p>I remember feeling a sort of awe of this little dark man; but +I was not afraid of him, for he was gentle, though sad—and +seemed kind. He led me into the garden—the Dutch garden, we +used to call it—with a balustrade, and statues at the farther +front, laid out in a carpet-pattern of brilliantly-coloured flowers. +We came down the broad flight of Caen stone steps into this, +and we walked in silence to the balustrade. The base was too +high at the spot where we reached it for me to see over; but +holding my hand, he said, 'Look through that, my child. Well, +you can't; but <i>I</i> can see beyond it—shall I tell you what? I see +ever so much. I see a cottage with a steep roof, that looks like +gold in the sunlight; there are tall trees throwing soft shadows +round it, and flowering shrubs, I can't say what, only the colours +are beautiful, growing by the walls and windows, and two little +children are playing among the stems of the trees, and we are +on our way there, and in a few minutes shall be under those +trees ourselves, and talking to those little children. Yet now to +me it is but a picture in my brain, and to you but a story told +by me, which you believe. Come, dear; let us be going.'</p> + +<p>So we descended the steps at the right, and side by side +walked along the grass lane between tall trim walls of evergreens. The way +was in deep shadow, for the sun was near +the horizon; but suddenly we turned to the left, and there we +stood in rich sunlight, among the many objects he had described.</p> + +<p>'Is this your house, my little men?' he asked of the children—pretty +little rosy boys—who assented; and he leaned with his +open hand against the stem of one of the trees, and with a +grave smile he nodded down to me, saying—</p> + +<p>'You see now, and hear, and <i>feel</i> for yourself that both the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>[pg 14]</span> + +vision and the story were quite true; but come on, my dear, we +have further to go.'</p> + +<p>And relapsing into silence we had a long ramble through the +wood, the same on which I was now looking in the distance. +Every now and then he made me sit down to rest, and he in a +musing solemn sort of way would relate some little story, reflecting, even +to my childish mind, a strange suspicion of a spiritual +meaning, but different from what honest Mrs. Rusk used to expound +to me from the Parables, and, somehow, startling in its +very vagueness.</p> + +<p>Thus entertained, though a little awfully, I accompanied the +dark mysterious little 'whipper-snapper' through the woodland +glades. We came, to me quite unexpectedly, in the deep sylvan +shadows, upon the grey, pillared temple, four-fronted, with a +slanting pedestal of lichen-stained steps, the lonely sepulchre in +which I had the morning before seen poor mamma laid. At the +sight the fountains of my grief reopened, and I cried bitterly, +repeating, 'Oh! mamma, mamma, little mamma!' and so went on +weeping and calling wildly on the deaf and the silent. There was +a stone bench some ten steps away from the tomb.</p> + +<p>'Sit down beside me, my child,' said the grave man with the +black eyes, very kindly and gently. 'Now, what do you see +there?' he asked, pointing horizontally with his stick towards +the centre of the opposite structure.</p> + +<p>'Oh, <i>that</i>—that place where poor mamma is?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, a stone wall with pillars, too high for either you or me +to see over. But——'</p> + +<p>Here he mentioned a name which I think must have been +Swedenborg, from what I afterwards learnt of his tenets and +revelations; I only know that it sounded to me like the name of +a magician in a fairy tale; I fancied he lived in the wood which +surrounded us, and I began to grow frightened as he proceeded.</p> + +<p>'But Swedenborg sees beyond it, over, and <i>through</i> it, and has +told me all that concerns us to know. He says your mamma is +not there.'</p> + +<p>'She is taken away!' I cried, starting up, and with streaming +eyes, gazing on the building which, though I stamped my feet +in my distraction, I was afraid to approach. 'Oh, <i>is</i> mamma +taken away? Where is she? Where have they brought her to?'</p> + +<p>I was uttering unconsciously very nearly the question with + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>[pg 15]</span> + +which Mary, in the grey of that wondrous morning on which she +stood by the empty sepulchre, accosted the figure standing near.</p> + +<p>'Your mamma is alive but too far away to see or hear us. +Swedenborg, standing here, can see and hear her, and tells me +all he sees, just as I told you in the garden about the little boys +and the cottage, and the trees and flowers which you could not +see. You believed in when <i>I</i> told you. So I can tell you now as I +did then; and as we are both, I hope, walking on to the same +place just as we did to the trees and cottage. You will surely +see with your own eyes how true the description is which I give +you.'</p> + +<p>I was very frightened, for I feared that when he had +done his narrative we were to walk on through the wood into +that place of wonders and of shadows where the dead were +visible.</p> + +<p>He leaned his elbow on his knee, and his forehead on his +hand, which shaded his downcast eyes. In that attitude he described to me a +beautiful landscape, radiant with a wondrous +light, in which, rejoicing, my mother moved along an airy path, +ascending among mountains of fantastic height, and peaks, +melting in celestial colouring into the air, and peopled with +human beings translated into the same image, beauty, and +splendour. And when he had ended his relation, he rose, took +my hand, and smiling gently down on my pale, wondering face, +he said the same words he had spoken before—</p> + +<p>'Come, dear, let us go.'</p> + +<p>'Oh! no, no, <i>no</i>—not now,' I said, resisting, and very much +frightened.</p> + +<p>'Home, I mean, dear. We cannot walk to the place I have +described. We can only reach it through the gate of death, to +which we are all tending, young and old, with sure steps.'</p> + +<p>'And where is the gate of death?' I asked in a sort of whisper, +as we walked together, holding his hand, and looking +stealthily. He smiled sadly and said—</p> + +<p>'When, sooner or later, the time comes, as Hagar's eyes were +opened in the wilderness, and she beheld the fountain of water, +so shall each of us see the door open before us, and enter in and +be refreshed.'</p> + +<p>For a long time following this walk I was very nervous; more +so for the awful manner in which Mrs. Rusk received my + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>[pg 16]</span> + +statement—with stern lips and upturned hands and eyes, and an +angry expostulation: 'I do wonder at you, Mary Quince, letting +the child walk into the wood with that limb of darkness. It is a +mercy he did not show her the devil, or frighten her out of her +senses, in that lonely place!'</p> + +<p>Of these Swedenborgians, indeed, I know no more than I +might learn from good Mrs. Rusk's very inaccurate talk. Two +or three of them crossed in the course of my early life, like +magic-lantern figures, the disk of my very circumscribed observation. All +outside was and is darkness. I once tried to read one +of their books upon the future state—heaven and hell; but I +grew after a day or two so nervous that I laid it aside. It is +enough for me to know that their founder either saw or fancied +he saw amazing visions, which, so far from superseding, confirmed and +interpreted the language of the Bible; and as dear +papa accepted their ideas, I am happy in thinking that they did +not conflict with the supreme authority of holy writ.</p> + +<p>Leaning on my hand, I was now looking upon that solemn +wood, white and shadowy in the moonlight, where, for a long +time after that ramble with the visionary, I fancied the gate of +death, hidden only by a strange glamour, and the dazzling land +of ghosts, were situate; and I suppose these earlier associations +gave to my reverie about my father's coming visitor a wilder +and a sadder tinge.</p> + +<a name="chap04"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<h2><i>MADAME DE LA ROUGIERRE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>On a sudden, on the grass before me, stood an odd figure—a +very tall woman in grey draperies, nearly white under the moon, +courtesying extraordinarily low, and rather fantastically.</p> + +<p>I stared in something like a horror upon the large and rather +hollow features which I did not know, smiling very unpleasantly +on me; and the moment it was plain that I saw her, the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25" id="page25"></a>[pg 17]</span> + +grey woman began gobbling and cackling shrilly—I could not +distinctly hear <i>what</i> through the window—and gesticulating +oddly with her long hands and arms.</p> + +<p>As she drew near the window, I flew to the fireplace, and rang +the bell frantically, and seeing her still there, and fearing that +she might break into the room, I flew out of the door, very much +frightened, and met Branston the butler in the lobby.</p> + +<p>'There's a woman at the window!' I gasped; 'turn her away, +please.'</p> + +<p>If I had said a man, I suppose fat Branston would have summoned and sent +forward a detachment of footmen. As it was, he +bowed gravely, with a—</p> + +<p>'Yes, 'm—shall, 'm.'</p> + +<p>And with an air of authority approached the window.</p> + +<p>I don't think that he was pleasantly impressed himself by the +first sight of our visitor, for he stopped short some steps of the +window, and demanded rather sternly—</p> + +<p>'What ye doin' there, woman?'</p> + +<p>To this summons, her answer, which occupied a little time, +was inaudible to me. But Branston replied—</p> + +<p>'I wasn't aware, ma'am; I heerd nothin'; if you'll go round +<i>that</i> way, you'll see the hall-door steps, and I'll speak to the +master, and do as he shall order.'</p> + +<p>The figure said something and pointed.</p> + +<p>'Yes, that's it, and ye can't miss the door.'</p> + +<p>And Mr. Branston returned slowly down the long room, and +halted with out-turned pumps and a grave inclination before +me, and the faintest amount of interrogation in the announcement—</p> + +<p>'Please, 'm, she says she's the governess.'</p> + +<p>'The governess! <i>What</i> governess?'</p> + +<p>Branston was too well-bred to smile, and he said thoughtfully—</p> + +<p>'P'raps, 'm, I'd best ask the master?'</p> + +<p>To which I assented, and away strode the flat pumps of the +butler to the library.</p> + +<p>I stood breathless in the hall. Every girl at my age knows +how much is involved in such an advent. I also heard Mrs. +Rusk, in a minute or two more, emerge I suppose from the +study. She walked quickly, and muttered sharply to herself—an + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26" id="page26"></a>[pg 18]</span> + +evil trick, in which she indulged when much 'put about.' I +should have been glad of a word with her; but I fancied she was +vexed, and would not have talked satisfactorily. She did not, +however, come my way; merely crossing the hall with her quick, +energetic step.</p> + +<p>Was it really the arrival of a governess? Was that apparition +which had impressed me so unpleasantly to take the command of +me—to sit alone with me, and haunt me perpetually with her +sinister looks and shrilly gabble?</p> + +<p>I was just making up my mind to go to Mary Quince, and +learn something definite, when I heard my father's step approaching from +the library: so I quietly re-entered the drawing-room, +but with an anxious and throbbing heart.</p> + +<p>When he came in, as usual, he patted me on the head gently, +with a kind of smile, and then began his silent walk up and +down the room. I was yearning to question him on the point +that just then engrossed me so disagreeably; but the awe in +which I stood of him forbade.</p> + +<p>After a time he stopped at the window, the curtain of which +I had drawn, and the shutter partly opened, and he looked out, +perhaps with associations of his own, on the scene I had been +contemplating.</p> + +<p>It was not for nearly an hour after, that my father suddenly, +after his wont, in a few words, apprised me of the arrival of +Madame de la Rougierre to be my governess, highly recommended +and perfectly qualified. My heart sank with a sure +presage of ill. I already disliked, distrusted, and feared her.</p> + +<p>I had more than an apprehension of her temper and fear +of possibly abused authority. The large-featured, smirking phantom, +saluting me so oddly in the moonlight, retained ever after +its peculiar and unpleasant hold upon my nerves.</p> + +<p>'Well, Miss Maud, dear, I hope you'll like your new governess—for +it's more than <i>I</i> do, just at present at least,' said Mrs. Rusk, +sharply—she was awaiting me in my room. 'I hate them French-women; they're +not natural, I think. I gave her her supper in +my room. She eats like a wolf, she does, the great raw-boned +hannimal. I wish you saw her in bed as I did. I put her next +the clock-room—she'll hear the hours betimes, I'm thinking. +You never saw such a sight. The great long nose and hollow + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27" id="page27"></a>[pg 19]</span> + +cheeks of her, and oogh! such a mouth! I felt a'most like little +Red Riding-Hood—I did, Miss.'</p> + +<p>Here honest Mary Quince, who enjoyed Mrs. Rusk's satire, +a weapon in which she was not herself strong, laughed outright.</p> + +<p>'Turn down the bed, Mary. She's very agreeable—she is, just +now—all new-comers is; but she did not get many compliments +from me, Miss—no, I rayther think not. I wonder why honest +English girls won't answer the gentry for governesses, instead of +them gaping, scheming, wicked furriners? Lord forgi' me, I think +they're all alike.'</p> + +<p>Next morning I made acquaintance with Madame de la Rougierre. +She was tall, masculine, a little ghastly perhaps, and +draped in purple silk, with a lace cap, and great bands of black +hair, too thick and black, perhaps, to correspond quite naturally +with her bleached and sallow skin, her hollow jaws, and the +fine but grim wrinkles traced about her brows and eyelids. She +smiled, she nodded, and then for a good while she scanned me +in silence with a steady cunning eye, and a stern smile.</p> + +<p>'And how is she named—what is Mademoiselle's name?' said +the tall stranger.</p> + +<p>'<i>Maud</i>, Madame.'</p> + +<p>'Maud!—what pretty name! Eh bien! I am very sure my +dear Maud she will be very good little girl—is not so?—and I am +sure I shall love you vary moche. And what 'av you been learning, Maud, my +dear cheaile—music, French, German, eh?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, a little; and I had just begun the use of the globes when +my governess went away.'</p> + +<p>I nodded towards the globes, which stood near her, as I said +this.</p> + +<p>'Oh! yes—the globes;' and she spun one of them with her +great hand. 'Je vous expliquerai tout cela à fond.'</p> + +<p>Madame de la Rougierre, I found, was always quite ready to +explain everything 'à fond;' but somehow her 'explications,' as +she termed them, were not very intelligible, and when pressed +her temper woke up; so that I preferred, after a while, accepting +the expositions just as they came.</p> + +<p>Madame was on an unusually large scale, a circumstance +which made some of her traits more startling, and altogether +rendered her, in her strange way, more awful in the eyes of a +nervous <i>child,</i> I may say, such as I was. She used to look at me + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28" id="page28"></a>[pg 20]</span> + +for a long time sometimes, with the peculiar smile I have mentioned, and a +great finger upon her lip, like the Eleusinian +priestess on the vase.</p> + +<p>She would sit, too, sometimes for an hour together, looking +into the fire or out of the window, plainly seeing nothing, and +with an odd, fixed look of something like triumph—very nearly +a smile—on her cunning face.</p> + +<p>She was by no means a pleasant <i>gouvernante</i> for a nervous +girl of my years. Sometimes she had accesses of a sort of hilarity +which frightened me still more than her graver moods, and I +will describe these by-and-by.</p> + +<a name="chap05"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<h2><i>SIGHTS AND NOISES</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>There is not an old house in England of which the servants and +young people who live in it do not cherish some traditions of +the ghostly. Knowl has its shadows, noises, and marvellous +records. Rachel Ruthyn, the beauty of Queen Anne's time, who +died of grief for the handsome Colonel Norbrooke, who was +killed in the Low Countries, walks the house by night, in crisp +and sounding silks. She is not seen, only heard. The tapping of +her high-heeled shoes, the sweep and rustle of her brocades, her +sighs as she pauses in the galleries, near the bed-room doors; +and sometimes, on stormy nights, her sobs.</p> + +<p>There is, beside, the 'link-man', a lank, dark-faced, black-haired man, in +a sable suit, with a link or torch in his hand. It +usually only smoulders, with a deep red glow, as he visits his +beat. The library is one of the rooms he sees to. Unlike 'Lady +Rachel,' as the maids called her, he is seen only, never heard. +His steps fall noiseless as shadows on floor and carpet. The lurid +glow of his smouldering torch imperfectly lights his figure and +face, and, except when much perturbed, his link never blazes. +On those occasions, however, as he goes his rounds, he ever and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29" id="page29"></a>[pg 21]</span> + +anon whirls it around his head, and it bursts into a dismal +flame. This is a fearful omen, and always portends some direful +crisis or calamity. It occurs, only once or twice in a +century.</p> + +<p>I don't know whether Madame had heard anything of these +phenomena; but she did report which very much frightened me +and Mary Quince. She asked us who walked in the gallery on +which her bed-room opened, making a rustling with her dress, +and going down the stairs, and breathing long breaths here and +there. Twice, she said, she had stood at her door in the dark, +listening to these sounds, and once she called to know who +it was. There was no answer, but the person plainly turned +back, and hurried towards her with an unnatural speed, which +made her jump within her door and shut it.</p> + +<p>When first such tales are told, they excite the nerves of the +young and the ignorant intensely. But the special effect, I have +found, soon wears out. The tale simply takes it's place with +the rest. It was with Madame's narrative.</p> + +<p>About a week after its relation, I had my experience of a +similar sort. Mary Quince went down-stairs for a night-light, +leaving me in bed, a candle burning in the room, and being +tired, I fell asleep before her return. When I awoke the candle +had been extinguished. But I heard a step softly approaching. +I jumped up—quite forgetting the ghost, and thinking only of +Mary Quince—and opened the door, expecting to see the light +of her candle. Instead, all was dark, and near me I heard the +fall of a bare foot on the oak floor. It was as if some one had +stumbled. I said, 'Mary,' but no answer came, only a rustling of +clothes and a breathing at the other side of the gallery, which +passed off towards the upper staircase. I turned into my room, +freezing with horror, and clapt my door. The noise wakened +Mary Quince, who had returned and gone to her bed half an +hour before.</p> + +<p>About a fortnight after this, Mary Quince, a very veracious +spinster, reported to me, that having got up to fix the window, +which was rattling, at about four o'clock in the morning, she +saw a light shining from the library window. She could swear +to its being a strong light, streaming through the chinks of the +shutter, and moving. No doubt the link was waved about his +head by the angry 'link-man.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page30" id="page30"></a>[pg 22]</span> + +<p>These strange occurrences helped, I think, just then to make +me nervous, and prepared the way for the odd sort of +ascendency which, through my sense of the mysterious and +super-natural, that repulsive Frenchwoman was gradually, and it +seemed without effort, establishing over me.</p> + +<p>Some dark points of her character speedily emerged from the +prismatic mist with which she had enveloped it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk's observation about the agreeability of new-comers +I found to be true; for as Madame began to lose that character, +her good-humour abated very perceptibly, and she began to +show gleams of another sort of temper, that was lurid and +dangerous.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding this, she was in the habit of always having +her Bible open by her, and was austerely attentive at morning +and evening services, and asked my father, with great humility, +to lend her some translations of Swedenborg's books, which she +laid much to heart.</p> + +<p>When we went out for our walk, if the weather were bad we +generally made our promenade up and down the broad terrace +in front of the windows. Sullen and malign at times she used to +look, and as suddenly she would pat me on the shoulder caressingly, and +smile with a grotesque benignity, asking tenderly, +'Are you fatigue, ma chère?' or 'Are you cold-a, dear Maud?'</p> + +<p>At first these abrupt transitions puzzled me, sometimes half +frightened me, savouring, I fancied, of insanity. The key, however, +was accidentally supplied, and I found that these accesses +of demonstrative affection were sure to supervene whenever +my father's face was visible through the library windows.</p> + +<p>I did not know well what to make of this woman, whom I +feared with a vein of superstitious dread. I hated being alone +with her after dusk in the school-room. She would sometimes +sit for half an hour at a time, with her wide mouth drawn +down at the corners, and a scowl, looking into the fire. If she +saw me looking at her, she would change all this on the instant, +affect a sort of languor, and lean her head upon her hand, and +ultimately have recourse to her Bible. But I fancied she did not +read, but pursued her own dark ruminations, for I observed that +the open book might often lie for half an hour or more under +her eyes and yet the leaf never turned.</p> + +<p>I should have been glad to be assured that she prayed when + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31" id="page31"></a>[pg 23]</span> + +on her knees, or read when that book was before her; I should +have felt that she was more canny and human. As it was, those +external pieties made a suspicion of a hollow contrast with realities +that helped to scare me; yet it was but a suspicion—I could not be +certain.</p> + +<p>Our rector and the curate, with whom she was very gracious, +and anxious about my collects and catechism, had an exalted +opinion of her. In public places her affection for me was always +demonstrative.</p> + +<p>In like manner she contrived conferences with my father. +She was always making excuses to consult him about my reading, +and to confide in him her sufferings, as I learned, from my +contumacy and temper. The fact is, I was altogether quiet and +submissive. But I think she had a wish to reduce me to a state +of the most abject bondage. She had designs of domination and +subversion regarding the entire household, I now believe, worthy +of the evil spirit I sometimes fancied her.</p> + +<p>My father beckoned me into the study one day, and said he—</p> + +<p>'You ought not to give poor Madame so much pain. She is +one of the few persons who take an interest in you; why should +she have so often to complain of your ill-temper and disobedience?—why +should she be compelled to ask my permission to +punish you? Don't be afraid, I won't concede that. But in so +kind a person it argues much. Affection I can't command—respect and +obedience I may—and I insist on your rendering <i>both</i> +to Madame.'</p> + +<p>'But sir,' I said, roused into courage by the gross injustice of +the charge, 'I have always done exactly as she bid me, and never +said one disrespectful word to Madame.'</p> + +<p>'I don't think, child, <i>you</i> are the best judge of that. Go, and +<i>amend</i>.' And with a displeased look he pointed to the door. My +heart swelled with the sense of wrong, and as I reached the door +I turned to say another word, but I could not, and only burst +into tears.</p> + +<p>'There—don't cry, little Maud—only let us do better for the +future. There—there—there has been enough.'</p> + +<p>And he kissed my forehead, and gently put me out and closed +the door.</p> + +<p>In the school-room I took courage, and with some warmth +upbraided Madame.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32" id="page32"></a>[pg 24]</span> + +<p>'Wat wicked cheaile!' moaned Madame, demurely. 'Read +aloud those three—yes, <i>those</i> three chapters of the Bible, my +dear Maud.'</p> + +<p>There was no special fitness in those particular chapters, and +when they were ended she said in a sad tone—</p> + +<p>'Now, dear, you must commit to memory this pretty priaire +for umility of art.'</p> + +<p>It was a long one, and in a state of profound irritation I got +through the task.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk hated her. She said she stole wine and brandy +whenever the opportunity offered—that she was always asking +her for such stimulants and pretending pains in her stomach. +Here, perhaps, there was exaggeration; but I knew it was true +that I had been at different times despatched on that errand and +pretext for brandy to Mrs. Rusk, who at last came to her bedside with pills +and a mustard blister only, and was hated irrevocably ever after.</p> + +<p>I felt all this was done to torture me. But a day is a long time +to a child, and they forgive quickly. It was always with a sense +of danger that I heard Madame say she must go and see Monsieur Ruthyn in +the library, and I think a jealousy of her growing influence was an +ingredient in the detestation in which honest Mrs. Rusk held her.</p> + +<a name="chap06"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> + +<h2><i>A WALK IN THE WOOD</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Two little pieces of by-play in which I detected her confirmed +my unpleasant suspicion. From the corner of the gallery I one +day saw her, when she thought I was out and all quiet, with her +ear at the keyhole of papa's study, as we used to call the sitting-room +next his bed-room. Her eyes were turned in the direction +of the stairs, from which only she apprehended surprise. Her +great mouth was open, and her eyes absolutely goggled with + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33" id="page33"></a>[pg 25]</span> + +eagerness. She was devouring all that was passing there. I drew +back into the shadow with a kind of disgust and horror. She +was transformed into a great gaping reptile. I felt that I could +have thrown something at her; but a kind of fear made me recede again +toward my room. Indignation, however, quickly returned, and I came back, +treading briskly as I did so. When +I reached the angle of the gallery again. Madame, I suppose, had +heard me, for she was half-way down the stairs.</p> + +<p>'Ah, my dear Cheaile, I am so glad to find you, and you are +dress to come out. We shall have so pleasant walk.'</p> + +<p>At that moment the door of my father's study opened, and +Mrs. Rusk, with her dark energetic face very much flushed, +stepped out in high excitement.</p> + +<p>'The Master says you may have the brandy-bottle, Madame +and I'm glad to be rid of it—<i>I</i> am.'</p> + +<p>Madame courtesied with a great smirk, that was full of intangible hate and +insult.</p> + +<p>'Better your own brandy, if drink you must!' exclaimed Mrs. +Rusk. 'You may come to the store-room now, or the butler can +take it.'</p> + +<p>And off whisked Mrs. Rusk for the back staircase.</p> + +<p>There had been no common skirmish on this occasion, but +a pitched battle.</p> + +<p>Madame had made a sort of pet of Anne Wixted, an under-chambermaid, and +attached her to her interest economically by +persuading me to make her presents of some old dresses and +other things. Anne was such an angel!</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Rusk, whose eyes were about her, detected Anne, +with a brandy-bottle under her apron, stealing up-stairs. Anne, +in a panic, declared the truth. Madame had commissioned her +to buy it in the town, and convey it to her bed-room. Upon +this, Mrs. Rusk impounded the flask; and, with Anne beside +her, rather precipitately appeared before 'the Master.' He heard +and summoned Madame. Madame was cool, frank, and fluent. +The brandy was purely medicinal. She produced a document +in the form of a note. Doctor Somebody presented his compliments +to Madame de la Rougierre, and ordered her a table-spoonful +of brandy and some drops of laudanum whenever the pain of +stomach returned. The flask would last a whole year, perhaps +two. She claimed her medicine.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34" id="page34"></a>[pg 26]</span> + +<p>Man's estimate of woman is higher than woman's own. Perhaps +in their relations to men they are generally more trustworthy—perhaps +woman's is the juster, and the other an appointed illusion. I don't +know; but so it is ordained.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk was recalled, and I saw, as you are aware, Madame's +procedure during the interview.</p> + +<p>It was a great battle—a great victory. Madame was in high +spirits. The air was sweet—the landscape charming—I, so good—everything +so beautiful! Where should we go? <i>this</i> way?</p> + +<p>I had made a resolution to speak as little as possible to +Madame, I was so incensed at the treachery I had witnessed; +but such resolutions do not last long with very young people, +and by the time we had reached the skirts of the wood we were +talking pretty much as usual.</p> + +<p>'I don't wish to go into the wood, Madame.'</p> + +<p>'And for what?'</p> + +<p>'Poor mamma is buried there.'</p> + +<p>'Is <i>there</i> the vault?' demanded Madame eagerly.</p> + +<p>I assented.</p> + +<p>'My faith, curious reason; you say because poor mamma is +buried there you will not approach! Why, cheaile, what would +good Monsieur Ruthyn say if he heard such thing? You are +surely not so unkain', and I am with you. <i>Allons</i>. Let us +come—even a little part of the way.'</p> + +<p>And so I yielded, though still reluctant.</p> + +<p>There was a grass-grown road, which we easily reached, leading +to the sombre building, and we soon arrived before it.</p> + +<p>Madame de la Rougierre seemed rather curious. She sat down +on the little bank opposite, in her most languid pose—her head +leaned upon the tips of her fingers.</p> + +<p>'How very sad—how solemn!' murmured Madame. 'What +noble tomb! How triste, my dear cheaile, your visit 'ere must +it be, remembering a so sweet maman. There is new inscription—is +it not new?' And so, indeed, it seemed.</p> + +<p>'I am fatigue—maybe you will read it aloud to me slowly and +solemnly, my dearest Maud?'</p> + +<p>As I approached, I happened to look, I can't tell why, suddenly, +over my shoulder; I was startled, for Madame was grimacing +after me with a vile derisive distortion. She pretended to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35" id="page35"></a>[pg 27]</span> + +be seized with a fit of coughing. But it would not do: she saw +that I had detected her, and she laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>'Come here, dear cheaile. I was just reflecting how foolish is +all this thing—the tomb—the epitaph. I think I would 'av none—no, +no epitaph. We regard them first for the oracle of the +dead, and find them after only the folly of the living. So I +despise. Do you think your house of Knowl down there is what +you call haunt, my dear?'</p> + +<p>'Why?' said I, flushing and growing pale again. I felt quite +afraid of Madame, and confounded at the suddenness of all +this.</p> + +<p>'Because Anne Wixted she says there is ghost. How dark is +this place! and so many of the Ruthyn family they are buried +here—is not so? How high and thick are the trees all round! +and nobody comes near.'</p> + +<p>And Madame rolled her eyes awfully, as if she expected to +see something unearthly, and, indeed, looked very like it herself.</p> + +<p>'Come away, Madame,' I said, growing frightened, and feeling +that if I were once, by any accident, to give way to the panic +that was gathering round me, I should instantaneously lose all +control of myself. 'Oh, come away! do, Madame—I'm frightened.'</p> + +<p>'No, on the contrary, sit here by me. It is very odd, you will +think, ma chêre—un goût bizarre, vraiment!—but I love very +much to be near to the dead people—in solitary place like this. +I am not afraid of the dead people, nor of the ghosts. 'Av you +ever see a ghost, my dear?'</p> + +<p>'Do, Madame, <i>pray</i> speak of something else.'</p> + +<p>'Wat little fool! But no, you are not afraid. I 'av seen the +ghosts myself. I saw one, for example, last night, shape like a +monkey, sitting in the corner, with his arms round his knees; +very wicked, old, old man his face was like, and white eyes +so large.'</p> + +<p>'Come away, Madame! you are trying to frighten me,' I said, +in the childish anger which accompanies fear. +Madame laughed an ugly laugh, and said—</p> + +<p>'Eh bien! little fool!—I will not tell the rest if you are really +frightened; let us change to something else.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes! oh, do—pray do.'</p> + +<p>'Wat good man is your father!'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36" id="page36"></a>[pg 28]</span> + +<p>'Very—the kindest darling. I don't know why it is, Madame, +I am so afraid of him, and never could tell him how much I +love him.'</p> + +<p>This confidential talking with Madame, strange to say, implied +no confidence; it resulted from fear—it was deprecatory. I +treated her as if she had human sympathies, in the hope that +they might be generated somehow.</p> + +<p>'Was there not a doctor from London with him a few months +ago? Dr. Bryerly, I think they call him.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, a Doctor Bryerly, who remained a few days. Shall we +begin to walk towards home, Madame? Do, pray.'</p> + +<p>'Immediately, cheaile; and does your father suffer much?'</p> + +<p>'No—I think not.'</p> + +<p>'And what then is his disease?'</p> + +<p>'Disease! he has <i>no</i> disease. Have you heard anything about +his health, Madame?' I said, anxiously.</p> + +<p>'Oh no, ma foi—I have heard nothing; but if the doctor came, +it was not because he was quite well.'</p> + +<p>'But that doctor is a doctor in theology, I fancy. I know he is +a Swedenborgian; and papa is so well he <i>could</i> not have come +as a physician.'</p> + +<p>'I am very glad, ma chère, to hear; but still you know your +father is old man to have so young cheaile as you. Oh, yes—he +is old man, and so uncertain life is. 'As he made his will, my +dear? Every man so rich as he, especially so old, aught to 'av +made his will.'</p> + +<p>'There is no need of haste, Madame; it is quite time enough +when his health begins to fail.'</p> + +<p>'But has he really compose no will?'</p> + +<p>'I really don't know, Madame.'</p> + +<p>'Ah, little rogue! you will not tell—but you are not such fool +as you feign yourself. No, no; you know everything. Come, tell +me all about—it is for your advantage, you know. What is in +his will, and when he wrote?'</p> + +<p>'But, Madame, I really know nothing of it. I can't say whether +there is a will or not. Let us talk of something else.'</p> + +<p>'But, cheaile, it will not kill Monsieur Ruthyn to make his +will; he will not come to lie here a day sooner by cause of that; +but if he make no will, you may lose a great deal of the property. +Would not that be pity?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page37" id="page37"></a>[pg 29]</span> + +<p>'I really don't know anything of his will. If papa has made +one, he has never spoken of it to me. I know he loves me—that +is enough.'</p> + +<p>'Ah! you are not such little goose—you do know everything, +of course. Come tell me, little obstinate, otherwise I +will break your little finger. Tell me everything.'</p> + +<p>'I know nothing of papa's will. You don't know, Madame, how +you hurt me. Let us speak of something else.'</p> + +<p>'You do know, and you must tell, petite dure-tête, or I will +break a your little finger.'</p> + +<p>With which words she seized that joint, and laughing spitefully, +she twisted it suddenly back. I screamed while she continued to +laugh.</p> + +<p>'Will you tell?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes! let me go,' I shrieked.</p> + +<p>She did not release it immediately however, but continued +her torture and discordant laughter. At last she finally +released my finger.</p> + +<p>'So she is going to be good cheaile, and tell everything to +her affectionate gouvernante. What do you cry for, little fool?'</p> + +<p>'You've hurt me very much—you have broken my finger,' I +sobbed.</p> + +<p>'Rub it and blow it and give it a kiss, little fool! What +cross girl! I will never play with you again—never. Let us go +home.'</p> + +<p>Madame was silent and morose all the way home. She would +not answer my questions, and affected to be very lofty and +offended.</p> + +<p>This did not last very long, however, and she soon resumed +her wonted ways. And she returned to the question of the will, +but not so directly, and with more art.</p> + +<p>Why should this dreadful woman's thoughts be running so +continually upon my father's will? How could it concern her?</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page38" id="page38"></a>[pg 30]</span> + +<a name="chap07"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> + +<h2><i>CHURCH SCARSDALE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I think all the females of our household, except Mrs. Rusk, who +was at open feud with her and had only room for the fiercer +emotions, were more or less afraid of this inauspicious foreigner.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk would say in her confidences in my room—</p> + +<p>'Where does she come from?—is she a French or a Swiss one, +or is she a Canada woman? I remember one of <i>them</i> when I +was a girl, and a nice limb <i>she</i> was, too! And who did she live +with? Where was her last family? Not one of us knows nothing +about her, no more than a child; except, of course, the Master—I +do suppose he made enquiry. She's always at hugger-mugger +with Anne Wixted. I'll pack that <i>one</i> about her business, if she +doesn't mind. Tattling and whispering eternally. It's not about +her own business she's a-talking. Madame de la Rougepot, I +call her. She <i>does</i> know how to paint up to the ninety-nines—she +does, the old cat. I beg your pardon, Miss, but <i>that</i> she is—a +devil, and no mistake. I found her out first by her thieving +the Master's gin, that the doctor ordered him, and filling the +decanter up with water—the old villain; but she'll be found out +yet, she will; and all the maids is afraid on her. She's not right, +they think—a witch or a ghost—I should not wonder. Catherine +Jones found her in her bed asleep in the morning after she +sulked with you, you know, Miss, with all her clothes on, what-ever +was the meaning; and I think she has frightened <i>you,</i> Miss +and has you as nervous as anythink—I do,' and so forth.</p> + +<p>It was true. I <i>was</i> nervous, and growing rather more so; and +I think this cynical woman perceived and intended it, and was +pleased. I was always afraid of her concealing herself in my +room, and emerging at night to scare me. She began sometimes +to mingle in my dreams, too—always awfully; and this nourished, +of course, the kind of ambiguous fear in which, in waking hours, +I held her.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page39" id="page39"></a>[pg 31]</span> + +<p>I dreamed one night that she led me, all the time whispering +something so very fast that I could not understand her, into +the library, holding a candle in her other hand above her +head. We walked on tiptoe, like criminals at the dead of night, +and stopped before that old oak cabinet which my father had +indicated in so odd a way to me. I felt that we were about some +contraband practice. There was a key in the door, which I experienced a +guilty horror at turning, she whispering in the +same unintelligible way, all the time, at my ear. I <i>did</i> turn it; +the door opened quite softly, and within stood my father, his +face white and malignant, and glaring close in mine. He cried +in a terrible voice, 'Death!' Out went Madame's candle, and at +the same moment, with a scream, I waked in the dark—still +fancying myself in the library; and for an hour after I continued +in a hysterical state.</p> + +<p>Every little incident about Madame furnished a topic of +eager discussion among the maids. More or less covertly, they +nearly all hated and feared her. They fancied that she was +making good her footing with 'the Master;' and that she would +then oust Mrs. Rusk—perhaps usurp her place—and so make a +clean sweep of them all. I fancy the honest little housekeeper +did not discourage that suspicion.</p> + +<p>About this time I recollect a pedlar—an odd, gipsified-looking +man—called in at Knowl. I and Catherine Jones were in the +court when he came, and set down his pack on the low balustrade beside the +door.</p> + +<p>All sorts of commodities he had—ribbons, cottons, silks, stockings, lace, +and even some bad jewellry; and just as he began his +display—an interesting matter in a quiet country house—Madame +came upon the ground. He grinned a recognition, and hoped +'Madamasel' was well, and 'did not look to see <i>her</i> here.'</p> + +<p>'Madamasel' thanked him. 'Yes, vary well,' and looked for +the first time decidedly 'put out.'</p> + +<p>'Wat a pretty things!' she said. 'Catherine, run and tell Mrs. +Rusk. She wants scissars, and lace too—I heard her say.'</p> + +<p>So Catherine, with a lingering look, departed; and Madame +said—</p> + +<p>'Will you, dear cheaile, be so kind to bring here my purse, I +forgot on the table in my room; also, I advise you, bring <i>your</i>.'</p> + +<p>Catherine returned with Mrs. Rusk. Here was a man who + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page40" id="page40"></a>[pg 32]</span> + +could tell them something of the old Frenchwoman, at last! +Slyly they dawdled over his wares, until Madame had made her +market and departed with me. But when the coveted opportunity +came, the pedlar was quite impenetrable. 'He forgot everything; +he did not believe as he ever saw the lady before. He called a +Frenchwoman, all the world over, Madamasel—that wor the name +on 'em all. He never seed her in partiklar afore, as he could +bring to mind. He liked to see 'em always, 'cause they makes +the young uns buy.'</p> + +<p>This reserve and oblivion were very provoking, and neither +Mrs. Rusk nor Catherine Jones spent sixpence with him;—he +was a stupid fellow, or worse.</p> + +<p>Of course Madame had tampered with him. But truth, like +murder, will out some day. Tom Williams, the groom, had seen +her, when alone with him, and pretending to look at his stock, +with her face almost buried in his silks and Welsh linseys, talking +as fast as she could all the time, and slipping <i>money</i>, he did +suppose, under a piece of stuff in his box.</p> + +<p>In the mean time, I and Madame were walking over the +wide, peaty sheep-walks that lie between Knowl and Church +Scarsdale. Since our visit to the mausoleum in the wood, she +had not worried me so much as before. She had been, indeed, +more than usually thoughtful, very little talkative, and troubled +me hardly at all about French and other accomplishments. A +walk was a part of our daily routine. I now carried a tiny +basket in my hand, with a few sandwiches, which were to furnish +our luncheon when we reached the pretty scene, about two +miles away, whither we were tending.</p> + +<p>We had started a little too late; Madame grew unwontedly +fatigued and sat down to rest on a stile before we had got half-way; +and there she intoned, with a dismal nasal cadence, a +quaint old Bretagne ballad, about a lady with a pig's head:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>'This lady was neither pig nor maid,</p> +<p>And so she was not of human mould;</p> +<p>Not of the living nor the dead.</p> +<p>Her left hand and foot were warm to touch;</p> +<p>Her right as cold as a corpse's flesh!</p> +<p>And she would sing like a funeral bell, with a ding-dong tune.</p> +<p>The pigs were afraid, and viewed her aloof;</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page41" id="page41"></a>[pg 33]</span> + +<p>And women feared her and stood afar.</p> +<p>She could do without sleep for a year and a day;</p> +<p>She could sleep like a corpse, for a month and more.</p> +<p>No one knew how this lady fed—</p> +<p>On acorns or on flesh.</p> +<p>Some say that she's one of the swine-possessed,</p> +<p>That swam over the sea of Gennesaret.</p> +<p>A mongrel body and demon soul.</p> +<p>Some say she's the wife of the Wandering Jew,</p> +<p>And broke the law for the sake of pork;</p> +<p>And a swinish face for a token doth bear,</p> +<p>That her shame is now, and her punishment coming.'</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>And so it went on, in a gingling rigmarole. The more anxious I +seemed to go on our way, the more likely was she to loiter. I +therefore showed no signs of impatience, and I saw her consult +her watch in the course of her ugly minstrelsy, and slyly glance, +as if expecting something, in the direction of our destination.</p> + +<p>When she had sung to her heart's content, up rose Madame, +and began to walk onward silently. I saw her glance once or +twice, as before, toward the village of Trillsworth, which lay in +front, a little to our left, and the smoke of which hung in a +film over the brow of the hill. I think she observed me, for she +enquired—</p> + +<p>'Wat is that a smoke there?'</p> + +<p>'That is Trillsworth, Madame; there is a railway station there.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, le chemin de fer, so near! I did not think. Where it +goes?'</p> + +<p>I told her, and silence returned.</p> + +<p>Church Scarsdale is a very pretty and odd scene. The slightly +undulating sheep-walk dips suddenly into a wide glen, in the lap +of which, by a bright, winding rill, rise from the sward the ruins +of a small abbey, with a few solemn trees scattered round. The +crows' nests hung untenanted in the trees; the birds were foraging far away +from their roosts. The very cattle had forsaken the +place. It was solitude itself.</p> + +<p>Madame drew a long breath and smiled.</p> + +<p>'Come down, come down, cheaile—come down to the churchyard.'</p> + +<p>As we descended the slope which shut out the surrounding + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42" id="page42"></a>[pg 34]</span> + +world, and the scene grew more sad and lonely, Madame's spirits +seemed to rise.</p> + +<p>'See 'ow many grave-stones—one, <i>two</i> hundred. Don't you love +the dead, cheaile? I will teach you to love them. You shall see +me die here to-day, for half an hour, and be among them. That +is what I love.'</p> + +<p>We were by this time at the little brook's side, and the low +churchyard wall with a stile, reached by a couple of stepping-stones, +across the stream, immediately at the other side.</p> + +<p>'Come, now!' cried Madame, raising her face, as if to sniff the +air; 'we are close to them. You will like them soon as I. You +shall see five of them. Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira! Come cross +quickily! I am Madame la Morgue—Mrs. Deadhouse! I will +present you my friends, Monsieur Cadavre and Monsieur Squelette. Come, +come, leetle mortal, let us play. Ouaah!' And she +uttered a horrid yell from her enormous mouth, and pushing her +wig and bonnet back, so as to show her great, bald head. She was +laughing, and really looked quite mad.</p> + +<p>'No, Madame, I will not go with you,' I said, disengaging my +hand with a violent effort, receding two or three steps.</p> + +<p>'Not enter the churchyard! Ma foi—wat mauvais goût! But +see, we are already in shade. The sun he is setting soon—where +well you remain, cheaile? I will not stay long.'</p> + +<p>'I'll stay here,' I said, a little angrily—for I <i>was</i> angry as well +as nervous; and through my fear was that indignation at her extravagances +which mimicked lunacy so unpleasantly, and were, I +knew, designed to frighten me.</p> + +<p>Over the stepping-stones, pulling up her dress, she skipped with +her long, lank legs, like a witch joining a Walpurgis. Over the +stile she strode, and I saw her head wagging, and heard her sing +some of her ill-omened rhymes, as she capered solemnly, with +many a grin and courtesy, among the graves and headstones, towards the +ruin.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page43" id="page43"></a>[pg 35]</span> + +<a name="chap08"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + +<h2><i>THE SMOKER</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Three years later I learned—in a way she probably little expected, +and then did not much care about—what really occurred +there. I learned even phrases and looks—for the story was related +by one who had heard it told—and therefore I venture to +narrate what at the moment I neither saw nor suspected. While +I sat, flushed and nervous, upon a flat stone by the bank of the +little stream, Madame looked over her shoulder, and perceiving +that I was out of sight, she abated her pace, and turned sharply +towards the ruin which lay at her left. It was her first visit, and +she was merely exploring; but now, with a perfectly shrewd and +businesslike air, turning the corner of the building, she saw, +seated upon the edge of a grave-stone, a rather fat and flashily-equipped +young man, with large, light whiskers, a jerry hat, +green cutaway coat with gilt buttons, and waistcoat and trousers +rather striking than elegant in pattern. He was smoking a short +pipe, and made a nod to Madame, without either removing it +from his lips or rising, but with his brown and rather good-looking +face turned up, he eyed her with something of the impudent +and sulky expression that was habitual to it.</p> + +<p>'Ha, Deedle, you are there! an' look so well. I am here, too, +quite <i>a</i>lon; but my friend, she wait outside the churchyard, by-side +the leetle river, for she must not think I know you—so I am +come <i>a</i>lon.'</p> + +<p>'You're a quarter late, and I lost a fight by you, old girl, this +morning,' said the gay man, and spat on the ground; 'and I wish +you would not call me Diddle. I'll call you Granny if you do.'</p> + +<p>'Eh bien! <i>Dud,</i> then. She is vary nice—wat you like. Slim +waist, wite teeth, vary nice eyes—dark—wat you say is best—and +nice leetle foot and ankle.'</p> + +<p>Madame smiled leeringly. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page44" id="page44"></a>[pg 36]</span> +Dud smoked on.</p> + +<p>'Go on,' said Dud, with a nod of command.</p> + +<p>'I am teach her to sing and play—she has such sweet voice!</p> + +<p>There was another interval here.</p> + +<p>'Well, that isn't much good. I hate women's screechin' about +fairies and flowers. Hang her! there's a scarecrow as sings at +Curl's Divan. Such a caterwauling upon a stage! I'd like to +put my two barrels into her.'</p> + +<p>By this time Dud's pipe was out, and he could afford to converse.</p> + +<p>'You shall see her and decide. You will walk down the river, +and pass her by.'</p> + +<p>'That's as may be; howsoever, it would not do, nohow, to buy +a pig in a poke, you know. And s'pose I shouldn't like her, arter +all?'</p> + +<p>Madame sneered, with a patois ejaculation of derision.</p> + +<p>'Vary good! Then some one else will not be so 'ard to please—as +you will soon find.'</p> + +<p>'Some one's bin a-lookin' arter her, you mean?' said the young +man, with a shrewd uneasy glance on the cunning face of the +French lady.</p> + +<p>'I mean precisely—that which I mean,' replied the lady, with +a teazing pause at the break I have marked.</p> + +<p>'Come, old 'un, none of your d—— old chaff, if you want me +to stay here listening to you. Speak out, can't you? There's +any chap as has bin a-lookin' arter her—is there?'</p> + +<p>'Eh bien! I suppose some.'</p> + +<p>'Well, you <i>suppose,</i> and <i>I</i> suppose—we may <i>all</i> suppose, +I guess; +but that does not make a thing be, as wasn't before; and you tell +me as how the lass is kep' private up there, and will be till you're +done educating her—a precious good 'un that is!' And he laughed +a little lazily, with the ivory handle of his cane on his lip, and +eyeing Madame with indolent derision.</p> + +<p>Madame laughed, but looked rather dangerous.</p> + +<p>'I'm only chaffin', you know, old girl. <i>You</i>'ve bin chaffin'—w'y +shouldn't <i>I</i>? But I don't see why she can't wait a bit; and +what's all the d——d hurry for? <i>I</i>'m in no hurry. I don't want +a wife on my back for a while. There's no fellow marries till he's +took his bit o' fun, and seen life—is there! And why should I be +driving with her to fairs, or to church, or to meeting, by jingo!—for + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45" id="page45"></a>[pg 37]</span> + +they say she's a Quaker—with a babby on each knee, only +to please them as will be dead and rotten when <i>I</i>'m only beginning?'</p> + +<p>'Ah, you are such charming fellow; always the same—always +sensible. So I and my friend we will walk home again, and you +go see Maggie Hawkes. Good-a-by, Dud—good-a-by.'</p> + +<p>'Quiet, you fool!—can't ye?' said the young gentleman, with +the sort of grin that made his face vicious when a horse vexed +him. 'Who ever said I wouldn't go look at the girl? Why, you +know that's just what I come here for—don't you? Only when +I think a bit, and a notion comes across me, why shouldn't I +speak out? I'm not one o' them shilly-shallies. If I like the girl, +I'll not be mug in and mug out about it. Only mind ye, I'll +judge for myself. Is that her a-coming?'</p> + +<p>'No; it was a distant sound.'</p> + +<p>Madame peeped round the corner. No one was approaching.</p> + +<p>'Well, you go round that a-way, and you only look at her, you +know, for she is such fool—so nairvous.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, is that the way with her?' said Dud, knocking out the +ashes of his pipe on a tombstone, and replacing the Turkish +utensil in his pocket. 'Well, then, old lass, good-bye,' and he +shook her hand. 'And, do ye see, don't ye come up till I pass, for +I'm no hand at play-acting; an' if you called me "sir," or was +coming it dignified and distant, you know, I'd be sure to laugh, +a'most, and let all out. So good-bye, d'ye see, and if you want me +again be sharp to time, mind.</p> + +<p>From habit he looked about for his dogs, but he had not +brought one. He had come unostentatiously by rail, travelling in +a third-class carriage, for the advantage of Jack Briderly's company, and +getting a world of useful wrinkles about the steeplechase that was coming +off next week.</p> + +<p>So he strode away, cutting off the heads of the nettles with +his cane as he went; and Madame walked forth into the open +space among the graves, where I might have seen her, had I +stood up, looking with the absorbed gaze of an artist on the +ruin.</p> + +<p>In a little while, along the path, I heard the clank of a step, +and the gentleman in the green cutaway coat, sucking his cane, +and eyeing me with an offensive familiar sort of stare the while, +passed me by, rather hesitating as he did so.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page46" id="page46"></a>[pg 38]</span> + +<p>I was glad when he turned the corner in the little hollow close +by, and disappeared. I stood up at once, and was reassured by a +sight of Madame, not very many yards away, looking at the ruin, +and apparently restored to her right mind. The last beams of the +sun were by this time touching the uplands, and I was longing +to recommence our walk home. I was hesitating about calling to +Madame, because that lady had a certain spirit of opposition +within her, and to disclose a small wish of any sort was generally, +if it lay in her power, to prevent its accomplishment.</p> + +<p>At this moment the gentleman in the green coat returned, +approaching me with a slow sort of swagger.</p> + +<p>'I say, Miss, I dropped a glove close by here. May you have +seen it?'</p> + +<p>'No, sir,' I said, drawing back a little, and looking, I dare say, +both frightened and offended.</p> + +<p>'I do think I must 'a dropped it close by your foot, Miss.'</p> + +<p>'No, sir,' I repeated.</p> + +<p>'No offence, Miss, but you're sure you didn't hide it?'</p> + +<p>I was beginning to grow seriously uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>'Don't be frightened, Miss; it's only a bit o' chaff. I'm not +going to search.'</p> + +<p>I called aloud, 'Madame, Madame!' and he whistled through +his fingers, and shouted, 'Madame, Madame,' and added, 'She's +as deaf as a tombstone, or she'll hear that. Gi'e her my compliments, +and say I said you're a beauty, Miss;' and with a laugh +and a leer he strode off.</p> + +<p>Altogether this had not been a very pleasant excursion. +Madame gobbled up our sandwiches, commending them every +now and then to me. But I had been too much excited to have +any appetite left, and very tired I was when we reached home.</p> + +<p>'So, there is lady coming to-morrow?' said Madame, who +knew everything. 'Wat is her name? I forget.'</p> + +<p>'Lady Knollys,' I answered.</p> + +<p>'Lady Knollys—wat odd name! She is very young—is she +not?'</p> + +<p>'Past fifty, I think.'</p> + +<p>'Hélas! She's vary old, then. Is she rich?'</p> + +<p>'I don't know. She has a place in Derbyshire.'</p> + +<p>'Derbyshire—that is one of your English counties, is it not?'</p> + +<p>'Oh yes, Madame,' I answered, laughing. 'I have said it to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page47" id="page47"></a>[pg 39]</span> + +you twice since you came;' and I gabbled through the chief +towns and rivers as catalogued in my geography.</p> + +<p>'Bah! to be sure—of course, cheaile. And is she your relation?'</p> + +<p>'Papa's first cousin.'</p> + +<p>'Won't you present-a me, pray?—I would so like!'</p> + +<p>Madame had fallen into the English way of liking people +with titles, as perhaps foreigners would if titles implied the +sort of power they do generally with us.</p> + +<p>'Certainly, Madame.'</p> + +<p>'You will not forget?'</p> + +<p>'Oh no.'</p> + +<p>Madame reminded me twice, in the course of the evening, of +my promise. She was very eager on this point. But it is a world +of disappointment, influenza, and rheumatics; and next morning +Madame was prostrate in her bed, and careless of all things but +flannel and James's powder.</p> + +<p>Madame was <i>désolée</i>; but she could not raise her head. She +only murmured a question.</p> + +<p>'For 'ow long time, dear, will Lady Knollys remain?'</p> + +<p>'A very few days, I believe.'</p> + +<p>'Hélas! 'ow onlucky! maybe to-morrow I shall be better +Ouah! my ear. The laudanum, dear cheaile!'</p> + +<p>And so our conversation for that time ended, and Madame +buried her head in her old red cashmere shawl.</p> + +<a name="chap09"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> + +<h2><i>MONICA KNOLLYS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Punctually Lady Knollys arrived. She was accompanied by her +nephew, Captain Oakley.</p> + +<p>They arrived a little before dinner; just in time to get to +their rooms and dress. But Mary Quince enlivened my toilet with +eloquent descriptions of the youthful Captain whom she had + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page48" id="page48"></a>[pg 40]</span> + +met in the gallery, on his way to his room, with the servant, +and told me how he stopped to let her pass, and how 'he smiled +so 'ansom.'</p> + +<p>I was very young then, you know, and more childish even than +my years; but this talk of Mary Quince's interested me, I must +confess, considerably. I was painting all sort of portraits of this +heroic soldier, while affecting, I am afraid, a hypocritical indifference +to her narration, and I know I was very nervous and +painstaking about my toilet that evening. When I went down +to the drawing-room, Lady Knollys was there, talking volubly +to my father as I entered—a woman not really old, but such as +very young people fancy aged—energetic, bright, saucy, dressed +handsomely in purple satin, with a good deal of lace, and a rich +point—I know not how to call it—not a cap, a sort of head-dress—light +and simple, but grand withal, over her greyish, silken +hair.</p> + +<p>Rather tall, by no means stout, on the whole a good firm +figure, with something kindly in her look. She got up, quite like +a young person, and coming quickly to meet me with a smile—</p> + +<p>'My young cousin!' she cried, and kissed me on both cheeks. +'You know who I am? Your cousin Monica—Monica Knollys—and +very glad, dear, to see you, though she has not set eyes on +you since you were no longer than that paper-knife. Now come +here to the lamp, for I must look at you. Who is she like? Let +me see. Like your poor mother, I think, my dear; but you've +the Aylmer nose—yes—not a bad nose either, and, come! very +good eyes, upon my life—yes, certainly something of her poor +mother—not a bit like you, Austin.'</p> + +<p>My father gave her a look as near a smile as I had seen there +for a long time, shrewd, cynical, but kindly too, and said he—</p> + +<p>'So much the better, Monica, eh?'</p> + +<p>'It was not for me to say—but you know, Austin, you always +were an ugly creature. How shocked and indignant the little +girl looks! You must not be vexed, you loyal little woman, with +Cousin Monica for telling the truth. Papa was and will be ugly +all his days. Come, Austin, dear, tell her—is not it so?'</p> + +<p>'What! depose against myself! That's not English law, +Monica.'</p> + +<p>'Well, maybe not; but if the child won't believe her own eyes, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page49" id="page49"></a>[pg 41]</span> + +how is she to believe me? She has long, pretty hands—you have—and +very nice feet too. How old is she?'</p> + +<p>'How old, child?' said my father to me, transferring the +question.</p> + +<p>She recurred again to my eyes.</p> + +<p>'That is the true grey—large, deep, soft—very peculiar. Yes, +dear, very pretty—long lashes, and such bright tints! You'll be +in the Book of Beauty, my dear, when you come out, and have +all the poet people writing verses to the tip of your nose—and +a very pretty little nose it is!'</p> + +<p>I must mention here how striking was the change in my +father's spirit while talking and listening to his odd and voluble +old Cousin Monica. Reflected from bygone associations, there +had come a glimmer of something, not gaiety, indeed, but like +an appreciation of gaiety. The gloom and inflexibility were +gone, and there was an evident encouragement and enjoyment +of the incessant sallies of his bustling visitor.</p> + +<p>How morbid must have been the tendencies of his habitual +solitude, I think, appeared from the evident thawing and brightening +that accompanied even this transient gleam of human society. +I was not a companion—more childish than most girls of +my age, and trained in all his whimsical ways, never to interrupt +a silence, or force his thoughts by unexpected question or +remark out of their monotonous or painful channel.</p> + +<p>I was as much surprised at the good-humour with which he +submitted to his cousin's saucy talk; and, indeed, just then +those black-panelled and pictured walls, and that quaint, misshapen +room, seemed to have exchanged their stern and awful +character for something wonderfully pleasanter to me, notwithstanding +the unpleasantness of the personal criticism to which +the plain-spoken lady chose to subject me.</p> + +<p>Just at that moment Captain Oakley joined us. He was my +first actual vision of that awful and distant world of fashion, of +whose splendours I had already read something in the three-volumed +gospel of the circulating library.</p> + +<p>Handsome, elegant, with features almost feminine, and soft, +wavy, black hair, whiskers and moustache, he was altogether +such a knight as I had never beheld, or even fancied, at Knowl—a +hero of another species, and from the region of the demigods. +I did not then perceive that coldness of the eye, and cruel curl + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page50" id="page50"></a>[pg 42]</span> + +of the voluptuous lip—only a suspicion, yet enough to indicate +the profligate man, and savouring of death unto death.</p> + +<p>But I was young, and had not yet the direful knowledge of +good and evil that comes with years; and he was so very handsome, +and talked in a way that was so new to me, and was so +much more charming than the well-bred converse of the humdrum +county families with whom I had occasionally sojourned +for a week at a time.</p> + +<p>It came out incidentally that his leave of absence was to expire +the day after to-morrow. A Lilliputian pang of disappointment followed this +announcement. Already I was sorry to lose +him. So soon we begin to make a property of what pleases us.</p> + +<p>I was shy, but not awkward. I was flattered by the attention +of this amusing, perhaps rather fascinating, young man of the +world; and he plainly addressed himself with diligence to +amuse and please me. I dare say there was more effort than I +fancied in bringing his talk down to my humble level, and interesting me +and making me laugh about people whom I had +never heard of before, than I then suspected.</p> + +<p>Cousin Knollys meanwhile was talking to papa. It was just +the conversation that suited a man so silent as habit had made +him, for her frolic fluency left him little to supply. It was +totally impossible, indeed, even in our taciturn household, that +conversation should ever flag while she was among us.</p> + +<p>Cousin Knollys and I went into the drawing-room together, +leaving the gentlemen—rather ill-assorted, I fear—to entertain +one another for a time.</p> + +<p>'Come here, my dear, and sit near me,' said Lady Knollys, +dropping into an easy chair with an energetic little plump, 'and +tell me how you and your papa get on. I can remember him +quite a cheerful man once, and rather amusing—yes, indeed—and +now you see what a bore he is—all by shutting himself up and +nursing his whims and fancies. Are those your drawings, dear?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, very bad, I'm afraid; but there are a few, <i>better</i>, I think in +the portfolio in the cabinet in the hall.'</p> + +<p>'They are by <i>no</i> means bad, my dear; and you play, of +course?'</p> + +<p>'Yes—that is, a little—pretty well, I hope.'</p> + +<p>'I dare say. I must hear you by-and-by. And how does your +papa amuse you? You look bewildered, dear. Well, I dare say, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page51" id="page51"></a>[pg 43]</span> + +amusement is not a frequent word in this house. But you must +not turn into a nun, or worse, into a puritan. What is he? A +Fifth-Monarchy-man, or something—I forget; tell me the name, +my dear.'</p> + +<p>'Papa is a Swedenborgian, I believe.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes—I forgot the horrid name—a Swedenborgian, that is +it. I don't know exactly what they think, but everyone knows +they are a sort of pagans, my dear. He's not making one of <i>you</i>, +dear—is he?'</p> + +<p>'I go to church every Sunday.'</p> + +<p>'Well, that's a mercy; Swedenborgian is such an ugly name, +and besides, they are all likely to be damned, my dear, and that's +a serious consideration. I really wish poor Austin had hit on +something else; I'd much rather have no religion, and enjoy +life while I'm in it, than choose one to worry me here and bedevil me +hereafter. But some people, my dear, have a taste for +being miserable, and provide, like poor Austin, for its gratification +in the next world as well as here. Ha, ha, ha! how grave the +little woman looks! Don't you think me very wicked? You know +you do; and very likely you are right. Who makes your dresses, +my dear? You <i>are</i> such a figure of fun!'</p> + +<p>'Mrs. Rusk, I think, ordered <i>this</i> dress. I and Mary Quince +planned it. I thought it very nice. We all like it very well.'</p> + +<p>There was something, I dare say, very whimsical about it, +probably very absurd, judged at least by the canons of fashion, +and old Cousin Monica Knollys, in whose eye the London fashions +were always fresh, was palpably struck by it as if it had +been some enormity against anatomy, for she certainly laughed +very heartily; indeed, there were tears on her cheeks when she +had done, and I am sure my aspect of wonder and dignity, as +her hilarity proceeded, helped to revive her merriment again +and again as it was subsiding.</p> + +<p>'There, you mustn't be vexed with old Cousin Monica,' she +cried, jumping up, and giving me a little hug, and bestowing a +hearty kiss on my forehead, and a jolly little slap on my cheek. +'Always remember your cousin Monica is an outspoken, wicked +old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by her nonsense. +A council of three—you all sat upon it—Mrs. Rusk, you said, +and Mary Quince, and your wise self, the weird sisters; and +Austin stepped in, as Macbeth, and said, 'What is't ye do?' You + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page52" id="page52"></a>[pg 44]</span> + +all made answer together, 'A something or other without a +name!' Now, seriously, my dear, it is quite unpardonable in +Austin—your papa, I mean—to hand you over to be robed and +bedizened according to the whimsies of these wild old women—aren't +they old? If they know better, it's positively <i>fiendish.</i> +I'll blow him up—I will indeed, my dear. You know you're an +heiress, and ought not to appear like a jack-pudding.'</p> + +<p>'Papa intends sending me to London with Madame and Mary +Quince, and going with me himself, if Doctor Bryerly says he +may make the journey, and then I am to have dresses and +everything.'</p> + +<p>'Well, that is better. And who is Doctor Bryerly—is your papa +ill?'</p> + +<p>'Ill; oh no; he always seems just the same. You don't think +him ill—<i>looking</i> ill, I mean?' I asked eagerly and frightened.</p> + +<p>'No, my dear, he looks very well for his time of life; but why +is Doctor What's-his-name here? Is he a physician, or a divine, +or a horse-doctor? and why is his leave asked?'</p> + +<p>'I—I really don't understand.'</p> + +<p>'Is he a what d'ye call'em—a Swedenborgian?'</p> + +<p>'I believe so.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, I see; ha, ha, ha! And so poor Austin must ask leave to +go up to town. Well, go he shall, whether his doctor likes it or +not, for it would not do to send you there in charge of your +Frenchwoman, my dear. What's her name?'</p> + +<p>'Madame de la Rougierre.'</p> + +<a name="chap10"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER X</h3> + +<h2><i>LADY KNOLLYS REMOVES A COVERLET</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Lady Knollys pursued her enquiries.</p> + +<p>'And why does not Madame make your dresses, my dear? I +wager a guinea the woman's a milliner. Did not she engage to +make your dresses?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page53" id="page53"></a>[pg 45]</span> + +<p>'I—I really don't know; I rather think not. She is my governess—a +finishing governess, Mrs. Rusk says.'</p> + +<p>'Finishing fiddle! Hoity-toity! and my lady's too grand to +cut out your dresses and help to sew them? And what <i>does</i> she +do? I venture to say she's fit to teach nothing but devilment—not +that she has taught <i>you</i> much, my dear—<i>yet</i> at least. I'll +see her, my dear; where is she? Come, let us visit Madame. I should +so like to talk to her a little.'</p> + +<p>'But she is ill,' I answered, and all this time I was ready to cry +for vexation, thinking of my dress, which must be very absurd to +elicit so much unaffected laughter from my experienced relative, +and I was only longing to get away and hide myself before that +handsome Captain returned.</p> + +<p>'Ill! is she? what's the matter?'</p> + +<p>'A cold—feverish and rheumatic, she says.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, a cold; is she up, or in bed?'</p> + +<p>'In her room, but not in bed.'</p> + +<p>'I should so like to see her, my dear. It is not mere curiosity, +I assure you. In fact, curiosity has nothing on earth to do with +it. A governess may be a very useful or a very useless person; +but she may also be about the most pernicious inmate imaginable. +She may teach you a bad accent, and worse manners, and +heaven knows what beside. Send the housekeeper, my dear, to +tell her that I am going to see her.'</p> + +<p>'I had better go myself, perhaps,' I said, fearing a collision +between Mrs. Rusk and the bitter Frenchwoman.</p> + +<p>'Very well, dear.'</p> + +<p>And away I ran, not sorry somehow to escape before Captain +Oakley returned.</p> + +<p>As I went along the passage, I was thinking whether my dress +could be so very ridiculous as my old cousin thought it, and trying +in vain to recollect any evidence of a similar contemptuous +estimate on the part of that beautiful and garrulous dandy. I +could not—quite the reverse, indeed. Still I was uncomfortable +and feverish—girls of my then age will easily conceive how miserable, +under similar circumstances, such a misgiving would make +them.</p> + +<p>It was a long way to Madame's room. I met Mrs. Rusk bustling +along the passage with a housemaid.</p> + +<p>'How is Madame?' I asked.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page54" id="page54"></a>[pg 46]</span> + +<p>'Quite well, I believe,' answered the housekeeper, drily. 'Nothing +the matter that <i>I</i> know of. She eat enough for two to-day. +I wish <i>I</i> could sit in my room doing nothing.'</p> + +<p>Madame was sitting, or rather reclining, in a low arm-chair, +when I entered the room, close to the fire, as was her wont, her +feet extended near to the bars, and a little coffee equipage beside +her. She stuffed a book hastily between her dress and the chair, +and received me in a state of langour which, had it not been for +Mrs. Rusk's comfortable assurances, would have frightened me.</p> + +<p>'I hope you are better, Madame,' I said, approaching.</p> + +<p>'Better than I deserve, my dear cheaile, sufficiently well. The +people are all so good, trying me with every little thing, like a +bird; here is café—Mrs. Rusk-a, poor woman, I try to swallow +a little to please her.'</p> + +<p>'And your cold, is it better?'</p> + +<p>She shook her head languidly, her elbow resting on the chair, +and three finger-tips supporting her forehead, and then she made +a little sigh, looking down from the corners of her eyes, in an +interesting dejection.</p> + +<p>'Je sens des lassitudes in all the members—but I am quaite +'appy, and though I suffer I am console and oblige des bontés, +ma chère, que vous avez tous pour moi;' and with these words +she turned a languid glance of gratitude on me which dropped +on the ground.</p> + +<p>'Lady Knollys wishes very much to see you, only for a few +minutes, if you could admit her.'</p> + +<p>'Vous savez les malades see <i>never</i> visitors,' she replied with a +startled sort of tartness, and a momentary energy. 'Besides, I +cannot converse; je sens de temps en temps des douleurs de +tête—of head, and of the ear, the right ear, it is parfois agony +absolutely, and now it is here.'</p> + +<p>And she winced and moaned, with her eyes closed and her +hand pressed to the organ affected.</p> + +<p>Simple as I was, I felt instinctively that Madame was shamming. +She was over-acting; her transitions were too violent, and +beside she forgot that I knew how well she could speak English, +and must perceive that she was heightening the interest of her +helplessness by that pretty tessellation of foreign idiom. I therefore +said with a kind of courage which sometimes helped me +suddenly—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page55" id="page55"></a>[pg 47]</span> + +<p>'Oh, Madame, don't you really think you might, without much +inconvenience, see Lady Knollys for a very few minutes?'</p> + +<p>'Cruel cheaile! you know I have a pain of the ear which +makes me 'orribly suffer at this moment, and you demand me +whether I will not converse with strangers. I did not think you +would be so unkain, Maud; but it is impossible, you must see—quite +impossible. I never, you <i>know</i>, refuse to take trouble +when I am able—never—<i>never</i>.'</p> + +<p>And Madame shed some tears, which always came at call, and +with her hand pressed to her ear, said very faintly,</p> + +<p>'Be so good to tell your friend how you see me, and how I +suffer, and leave me, Maud, for I wish to lie down for a little, +since the pain will not allow me to remain longer.'</p> + +<p>So with a few words of comfort which could not well be refused, +but I dare say betraying my suspicion that more was made +of her sufferings than need be, I returned to the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>'Captain Oakley has been here, my dear, and fancying, I +suppose, that you had left us for the evening, has gone to the +billiard-room, I think,' said Lady Knollys, as I entered.</p> + +<p>That, then, accounted for the rumble and smack of balls +which I had heard as I passed the door.</p> + +<p>'I have been telling Maud how detestably she is got up.'</p> + +<p>'Very thoughtful of you, Monica!' said my father.</p> + +<p>'Yes, and really, Austin, it is quite clear you ought to marry; +you want some one to take this girl out, and look after her, and +who's to do it? She's a dowdy—don't you see? Such a dust! +And it <i>is</i> really such a pity; for she's a very pretty creature, +and a clever woman could make her quite charming.'</p> + +<p>My father took Cousin Monica's sallies with the most wonderful +good-humour. She had always, I fancy, been a privileged +person, and my father, whom we all feared, received her jolly +attacks, as I fancy the grim Front-de-Boeufs of old accepted the +humours and personalities of their jesters.</p> + +<p>'Am I to accept this as an overture?' said my father to his +voluble cousin.</p> + +<p>'Yes, you may, but not for myself, Austin—I'm not worthy. +Do you remember little Kitty Weadon that I wanted you to +marry eight-and-twenty years ago, or more, with a hundred and +twenty thousand pounds? Well, you know, she has got ever so +much now, and she is really a most amiable old thing, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56" id="page56"></a>[pg 48]</span> +though <i>you</i> would not have her then, she has had her second +husband since, I can tell you.'</p> + +<p>'I'm glad I was not the first,' said my father.</p> + +<p>'Well, they really say her wealth is absolutely immense. Her +last husband, the Russian merchant, left her everything. She has +not a human relation, and she is in the best set.'</p> + +<p>'You were always a match-maker, Monica,' said my father, +stopping, and putting his hand kindly on hers. 'But it won't do. +No, no, Monica; we must take care of little Maud some other way.'</p> + +<p>I was relieved. We women have all an instinctive dread of +second marriages, and think that no widower is quite above or +below that danger; and I remember, whenever my father, which +indeed was but seldom, made a visit to town or anywhere else, +it was a saying of Mrs. Rusk—</p> + +<p>'I shan't wonder, neither need you, my dear, if he brings home +a young wife with him.'</p> + +<p>So my father, with a kind look at her, and a very tender one +on me, went silently to the library, as he often did about that +hour.</p> + +<p>I could not help resenting my Cousin Knollys' officious recommendation +of matrimony. Nothing I dreaded more than a step-mother. +Good Mrs. Rusk and Mary Quince, in their several +ways, used to enhance, by occasional anecdotes and frequent +reflections, the terrors of such an intrusion. I suppose they did +not wish a revolution and all its consequences at Knowl, and +thought it no harm to excite my vigilance.</p> + +<p>But it was impossible long to be vexed with Cousin Monica.</p> + +<p>'You know, my dear, your father is an oddity,' she said. 'I +don't mind him—I never did. You must not. Cracky, my dear, +cracky—decidedly cracky!'</p> + +<p>And she tapped the corner of her forehead, with a look +so sly and comical, that I think I should have laughed, if the +sentiment had not been so awfully irreverent.</p> + +<p>'Well, dear, how is our friend the milliner?'</p> + +<p>'Madame is suffering so much from pain in her ear, that she +says it would be quite impossible to have the honour—'</p> + +<p>'Honour—fiddle! I want to see what the woman's like. Pain +in her ear, you say? Poor thing! Well, dear, I think I can cure + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57" id="page57"></a>[pg 49]</span> + +that in five minutes. I have it myself, now and then. Come to +my room, and we'll get the bottles.'</p> + +<p>So she lighted her candle in the lobby, and with a light and +agile step she scaled the stairs, I following; and having found +the remedies, we approached Madame's room together.</p> + +<p>I think, while we were still at the end of the gallery, Madame +heard and divined our approach, for her door suddenly shut, +and there was a fumbling at the handle. But the bolt was out +of order.</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys tapped at the door, saying—'we'll come in, +please, and see you. I've some remedies, which I'm sure will do +you good.'</p> + +<p>There was no answer; so she opened the door, and we both +entered. Madame had rolled herself in the blue coverlet, and +was lying on the bed, with her face buried in the pillow, and +enveloped in the covering.</p> + +<p>'Perhaps she's asleep?' said Lady Knollys, getting round to +the side of the bed, and stooping over her.</p> + +<p>Madame lay still as a mouse. Cousin Monica set down her two +little vials on the table, and, stooping again over the bed, began +very gently with her fingers to lift the coverlet that covered her +face. Madame uttered a slumbering moan, and turned more +upon her face, clasping the coverlet faster about her.</p> + +<p>'Madame, it is Maud and Lady Knollys. We have come to +relieve your ear. Pray let me see it. She can't be asleep, she's +holding the clothes so fast. Do, pray, allow me to see it.'</p> + +<a name="chap11"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3> + +<h2><i>LADY KNOLLYS SEES THE FEATURES</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Perhaps, if Madame had murmured, 'It is quite well—pray +permit me to sleep,' she would have escaped an awkwardness. +But having adopted the rôle of the exhausted slumberer, she +could not consistently speak at the moment; neither would it do +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page58" id="page58"></a>[pg 50]</span> +by main force, to hold the coverlet about her face, and so her +presence of mind forsook her. Cousin Monica drew it back +and hardly beheld the profile of the sufferer, when her good-humoured +face was lined and shadowed with a dark curiosity +and a surprise by no means pleasant. She stood erect beside +the bed, with her mouth firmly shut and drawn down at the +corners, in a sort of recoil and perturbation, looking down upon +the patient.</p> + +<p>'So that's Madame de la Rougierre?' at length exclaimed Lady +Knollys, with a very stately disdain. I think I never saw anyone +look more shocked.</p> + +<p>Madame sat up, very flushed. No wonder, for she had been +wrapped so close in the coverlet. She did not look quite at Lady +Knollys, but straight before her, rather downward, and very +luridly.</p> + +<p>I was very much frightened and amazed, and felt on the point +of bursting into tears.</p> + +<p>'So, Mademoiselle, you have married, it seems, since I had +last the honour of seeing you? I did not recognise Mademoiselle +under her new name.'</p> + +<p>'Yes—I <i>am</i> married, Lady Knollys; I thought everyone who +knew me had heard of that. Very respectably married, for a +person of my rank. I shall not need long the life of a governess. +There is no harm, I hope?'</p> + +<p>'I hope not,' said Lady Knollys, drily, a little pale, and still +looking with a dark sort of wonder upon the flushed face and +forehead of the governess, who was looking downward, straight +before her, very sulkily and disconcerted.</p> + +<p>'I suppose you have explained everything satisfactorily to +Mr. Ruthyn, in whose house I find you?' said Cousin Monica.</p> + +<p>'Yes, certainly, everything he requires—in effect there is <i>nothing</i> +to explain. I am ready to answer to any question. Let +<i>him</i> demand me.'</p> + +<p>'Very good, Mademoiselle.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Madame</i>, if you please.'</p> + +<p>'I forgot—<i>Madame</i>—yes, I shall apprise him of everything.'</p> + +<p>Madame turned upon her a peaked and malign look, smiling +askance with a stealthy scorn.</p> + +<p>'For myself, I have nothing to conceal. I have always done +my duty. What fine scene about nothing absolutely—what charming + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page59" id="page59"></a>[pg 51]</span> + +remedies for a sick person! Ma foi! how much oblige I am +for these so amiable attentions!'</p> + +<p>'So far as I can see, Mademoiselle—Madame, I mean—you +don't stand very much in need of remedies. Your ear and head +don't seem to trouble you just now. I fancy these pains may now +be dismissed.'</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys was now speaking French.</p> + +<p>'Mi ladi has diverted my attention for a moment, but that +does not prevent that I suffer frightfully. I am, of course, only +poor governess, and such people perhaps ought not to have pain—at +least to show when they suffer. It is permitted us to die, but +not to be sick.'</p> + +<p>'Come, Maud, my dear, let us leave the invalid to her repose +and to nature. I don't think she needs my chloroform and opium +at present.'</p> + +<p>'Mi ladi is herself a physic which chases many things, and +powerfully affects the ear. I would wish to sleep, notwithstanding, +and can but gain that in silence, if it pleases mi ladi.'</p> + +<p>'Come, my dear,' said Lady Knollys, without again glancing +at the scowling, smiling, swarthy face in the bed; 'let us leave +your instructress to her <i>concforto</i>.'</p> + +<p>'The room smells all over of brandy, my dear—does she +drink?' said Lady Knollys, as she closed the door, a little +sharply.</p> + +<p>I am sure I looked as much amazed as I felt, at an imputation +which then seemed to me so entirely incredible.</p> + +<p>'Good little simpleton!' said Cousin Monica, smiling in my +face, and bestowing a little kiss on my cheek; 'such a thing as +a tipsy lady has never been dreamt of in your philosophy. Well, +we live and learn. Let us have our tea in my room—the gentlemen, +I dare say, have retired.'</p> + +<p>I assented, of course, and we had tea very cosily by her bedroom fire.</p> + +<p>'How long have you had that woman?' she asked suddenly, +after, for her, a very long rumination.</p> + +<p>'She came in the beginning of February—nearly ten months +ago—is not it?'</p> + +<p>'And who sent her?'</p> + +<p>'I really don't know; papa tells me so little—he arranged +it all himself, I think.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page60" id="page60"></a>[pg 52]</span> + +<p>Cousin Monica made a sound of acquiescence—her lips closed +and a nod, frowning hard at the bars.</p> + +<p>'It <i>is</i> very odd!' she said; 'how people <i>can</i> be such fools!' +Here there came a little pause. 'And what sort of person is she—do +you like her?'</p> + +<p>'Very well—that is, <i>pretty</i> well. You won't tell?—but she +rather frightens me. I'm sure she does not intend it, but somehow +I am very much afraid of her.'</p> + +<p>'She does not beat you?' said Cousin Monica, with an incipient +frenzy in her face that made me love her.</p> + +<p>'Oh no!'</p> + +<p>'Nor ill-use you in any way?'</p> + +<p>'No.'</p> + +<p>'Upon your honour and word, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'No, upon my honour.'</p> + +<p>'You know I won't tell her anything you say to me; and I +only want to know, that I may put an end to it, my poor little +cousin.'</p> + +<p>'Thank you, Cousin Monica very much; but really and truly +she does not ill-use me.'</p> + +<p>'Nor threaten you, child?'</p> + +<p>'Well, <i>no</i>—no, she does not threaten.'</p> + +<p>'And how the plague <i>does</i> she frighten you, child?'</p> + +<p>'Well, I really—I'm half ashamed to tell you—you'll laugh at +me—and I don't know that she wishes to frighten me. But there +is something, is not there, ghosty, you know, about her?'</p> + +<p>'<i>Ghosty</i>—is there? well, I'm sure I don't know, but I suspect +there's something devilish—I mean, she seems roguish—does +not she? And I really think she has had neither cold +nor pain, but has just been shamming sickness, to keep out of +my way.'</p> + +<p>I perceived plainly enough that Cousin Monica's damnatory +epithet referred to some retrospective knowledge, which she +was not going to disclose to me.</p> + +<p>'You knew Madame before,' I said. 'Who is she?'</p> + +<p>'She assures me she is Madame de la Rougierre, and, I suppose, +in French phrase she so calls herself,' answered Lady +Knollys, with a laugh, but uncomfortably, I thought.</p> + +<p>'Oh, dear Cousin Monica, do tell me—is she—is she very +wicked? I am so afraid of her!'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page61" id="page61"></a>[pg 53]</span> + +<p>'How should I know, dear Maud? But I do remember her +face, and I don't very much like her, and you may depend on it, +I will speak to your father in the morning about her, and don't, +darling, ask me any more about her, for I really have not very +much to tell that you would care to hear, and the fact is I +<i>won't</i> say any more about her—there!'</p> + +<p>And Cousin Monica laughed, and gave me a little slap on the +cheek, and then a kiss.</p> + +<p>'Well, just tell me this——'</p> + +<p>'Well, I <i>won't</i> tell you this, nor anything—not a word, curious +little woman. The fact is, I have little to tell, and I mean to +speak to your father, and he, I am sure, will do what is right; +so don't ask me any more, and let us talk of something pleasanter.'</p> + +<p>There was something indescribably winning, it seemed to me, +in Cousin Monica. Old as she was, she seemed to me so girlish, +compared with those slow, unexceptionable young ladies whom +I had met in my few visits at the county houses. By this time +my shyness was quite gone, and I was on the most intimate +terms with her.</p> + +<p>'You know a great deal about her, Cousin Monica, but you +won't tell me.'</p> + +<p>'Nothing I should like better, if I were at liberty, little rogue; +but you know, after all, I don't really say whether I <i>do</i> know +anything about her or not, or what sort of knowledge it is. But +tell me what you mean by ghosty, and all about it.'</p> + +<p>So I recounted my experiences, to which, so far from laughing +at me, she listened with very special gravity.</p> + +<p>'Does she write and receive many letters?'</p> + +<p>I had seen her write letters, and supposed, though I could only +recollect one or two, that she received in proportion.</p> + +<p>'Are <i>you</i> Mary Quince?' asked my lady cousin.</p> + +<p>Mary was arranging the window-curtains, and turned, dropping +a courtesy affirmatively toward her.</p> + +<p>'You wait on my little cousin, Miss Ruthyn, don't you?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, 'm,' said Mary, in her genteelest way.</p> + +<p>'Does anyone sleep in her room?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, 'm, <i>I</i>—please, my lady.'</p> + +<p>'And no one else?'</p> + +<p>'No, 'm—please, my lady.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62" id="page62"></a>[pg 54]</span> + +<p>'Not even the <i>governess</i>, sometimes?</p> + +<p>'No, please, my lady.'</p> + +<p>'Never, you are quite sure, my dear?' said Lady Knollys, +transferring the question to me.</p> + +<p>'Oh, no, never,' I answered.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica mused gravely, I fancied even anxiously, into +the grate; then stirred her tea and sipped it, still looking into +the same point of our cheery fire.</p> + +<p>'I like your face, Mary Quince; I'm sure you are a good +creature,' she said, suddenly turning toward her with a pleasant +countenance. 'I'm very glad you have got her, dear. I wonder +whether Austin has gone to his bed yet!'</p> + +<p>'I think not. I am certain he is either in the library or in +his private room—papa often reads or prays alone at night, and—and +he does not like to be interrupted.'</p> + +<p>'No, no; of course not—it will do very well in the morning.'</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys was thinking deeply, as it seemed to me.</p> + +<p>'And so you are afraid of goblins, my dear,' she said at last, +with a faded sort of smile, turning toward me; 'well, if <i>I</i> were, +I know what <i>I</i> should do—so soon as I, and good Mary Quince +here, had got into my bed-chamber for the night, I should stir +the fire into a good blaze, and bolt the door—do you see, Mary +Quince?—bolt the door and keep a candle lighted all night. +You'll be very attentive to her, Mary Quince, for I—I don't +think she is very strong, and she must not grow nervous: so get +to bed early, and don't leave her alone—do you see?—and—and +remember to bolt the door, Mary Quince, and I shall be sending +a little Christmas-box to my cousin, and I shan't forget you. +Good-night.'</p> + +<p>And with a pleasant courtesy Mary fluttered out of the room.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page63" id="page63"></a>[pg 55]</span> + +<a name="chap12"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3> + +<h2><i>A CURIOUS CONVERSATION</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>We each had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile.</p> + +<p>'We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious +little woman, you know, and you shan't be frightened.'</p> + +<p>And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking +briskly around the room, like a lady in search of a subject, her +eye rested on a small oval portrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in +the French style, representing a pretty little boy, with rich +golden hair, large soft eyes, delicate features, and a shy, peculiar +expression.</p> + +<p>'It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very +long ago. I think I was then myself a child, but that is a much +older style of dress, and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever +saw. I am just forty-nine now. Oh dear, yes; that is a good while +before I was <i>born</i>. What a strange, pretty little boy! a +mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? What +rich golden hair! It is very clever—a French artist, I dare say—and +who <i>is</i> that little boy?'</p> + +<p>'I never heard. Some one a hundred years ago, I dare say. +But there is a picture down-stairs I am so anxious to ask you +about!'</p> + +<p>'Oh!' murmured Lady Knollys, still gazing dreamily on the +crayon.</p> + +<p>'It is the full-length picture of Uncle Silas—I want to ask you +about him.'</p> + +<p>At mention of his name, my cousin gave me a look so sudden +and odd as to amount almost to a start.</p> + +<p>'Your uncle Silas, dear? It is very odd, I was just thinking of +him;' and she laughed a little.</p> + +<p>'Wondering whether that little boy could be he.'</p> + +<p>And up jumped active Cousin Monica, with a candle in her + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64" id="page64"></a>[pg 56]</span> + +hand, upon a chair, and scrutinised the border of the sketch for +a name or a date.</p> + +<p>'Maybe on the back?' said she.</p> + +<p>And so she unhung it, and there, true enough, not on the back +of the drawing, but of the frame, which was just as good, in +pen-and-ink round Italian letters, hardly distinguishable now from +the discoloured wood, we traced—</p> + +<p>'<i>Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, Ætate</i> viii. 15 <i>May</i>, 1779.'</p> + +<p>'It is very odd I should not have been told or remembered +who it was. I think if I had <i>ever</i> been told I <i>should</i> have +remembered it. I do recollect this picture, though, I am nearly +certain. What a singular child's face!'</p> + +<p>And my cousin leaned over it with a candle on each side, and +her hand shading her eyes, as if seeking by aid of these fair and +half-formed lineaments to read an enigma.</p> + +<p>The childish features defied her, I suppose; their secret was +unfathomable, for after a good while she raised her head, still +looking at the portrait, and sighed.</p> + +<p>'A very singular face,' she said, softly, as a person might who +was looking into a coffin. 'Had not we better replace it?'</p> + +<p>So the pretty oval, containing the fair golden hair and large +eyes, the pale, unfathomable sphinx, remounted to its nail, and +the <i>funeste</i> and beautiful child seemed to smile down oracularly +on our conjectures.</p> + +<p>'So is the face in the large portrait—<i>very</i> singular—more, I +think, than that—handsomer too. This is a sickly child, I think; +but the full-length is so manly, though so slender, and so handsome too. I +always think him a hero and a mystery, and they +won't tell me about him, and I can only dream and wonder.'</p> + +<p>'He has made more people than you dream and wonder, my +dear Maud. I don't know what to make of him. He is a sort of +idol, you know, of your father's, and yet I don't think he helps +him much. His abilities were singular; so has been his misfortune; +for the rest, my dear, he is neither a hero nor a wonder. +So far as I know, there are very few sublime men going about +the world.'</p> + +<p>'You really must tell me all you know about him, Cousin +Monica. Now don't refuse.'</p> + +<p>'But why should you care to hear? There is really nothing +pleasant to tell.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65" id="page65"></a>[pg 57]</span> + +<p>'That is just the reason I wish it. If it were at all pleasant, it +would be quite commonplace. I like to hear of adventures, dangers, +and misfortunes; and above all, I love a mystery. You +know, papa will never tell me, and I dare not ask him; not that +he is ever unkind, but, somehow, I am afraid; and neither Mrs. +Rusk nor Mary Quince will tell me anything, although I suspect +they know a good deal.'</p> + +<p>'I don't see any good in telling you, dear, nor, to say the truth, +any great harm either.'</p> + +<p>'No—now that's <i>quite</i> true—no harm. There <i>can't</i> be, for I +<i>must</i> know it all some day, you know, and better now, and +from <i>you</i>, than perhaps from a stranger, and in a less favourable +way.'</p> + +<p>'Upon my word, it is a wise little woman; and really, that's +not such bad sense after all.'</p> + +<p>So we poured out another cup of tea each, and sipped it very +comfortably by the fire, while Lady Knollys talked on, and her +animated face helped the strange story.</p> + +<p>'It is not very much, after all. Your uncle Silas, you know, +is living?'</p> + +<p>'Oh yes, in Derbyshire.'</p> + +<p>'So I see you do know something of him, sly girl! but no matter. +You know how very rich your father is; but Silas was the +younger brother, and had little more than a thousand a year. +If he had not played, and did not care to marry, it would have +been quite enough—ever so much more than younger sons of +dukes often have; but he was—well, a <i>mauvais sujet</i>—you know +what that is. I don't want to say any ill of him—more than I +really know—but he was fond of his pleasures, I suppose, like +other young men, and he played, and was always losing, and +your father for a long time paid great sums for him. I believe +he was really a most expensive and vicious young man; and I +fancy he does not deny that now, for they say he would change +the past if he could.</p> + +<p>I was looking at the pensive little boy in the oval frame—aged +eight years—who was, a few springs later, 'a most expensive and +vicious young man,' and was now a suffering and outcast old +one, and wondering from what a small seed the hemlock or the +wallflower grows, and how microscopic are the beginnings of + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page66" id="page66"></a>[pg 58]</span> + +the kingdom of God or of the mystery of iniquity in a human +being's heart.</p> + +<p>'Austin—your papa—was very kind to him—<i>very</i>; but then, +you know, he's an oddity, dear—he <i>is</i> an oddity, though no one +may have told you before—and he never forgave him for his +marriage. Your father, I suppose, knew more about the lady +than I did—I was young then—but there were various reports, +none of them pleasant, and she was not visited, and for some +time there was a complete estrangement between your father +and your uncle Silas; and it was made up, rather oddly, on the +very occasion which some people said ought to have totally +separated them. Did you ever hear anything—anything <i>very</i> +remarkable—about your uncle?'</p> + +<p>'No, never, they would not tell me, though I am sure they +know. Pray go on.'</p> + +<p>'Well, Maud, as I have begun, I'll complete the story, though +perhaps it might have been better untold. It was something +rather shocking—indeed, <i>very</i> shocking; in fact, they insisted +on suspecting him of having committed a murder.'</p> + +<p>I stared at my cousin for some time, and then at the little boy, +so refined, so beautiful, so <i>funeste</i>, in the oval frame.</p> + +<p>'Yes, dear,' said she, her eyes following mine; 'who'd have +supposed he could ever have—have fallen under so horrible a +suspicion?'</p> + +<p>'The wretches! Of course, Uncle Silas—of course, he's innocent?' +I said at last.</p> + +<p>'Of course, my dear,' said Cousin Monica, with an odd look; +'but you know there are some things as bad almost to be suspected +of as to have done, and the country gentlemen chose to +suspect him. They did not like him, you see. His politics vexed +them; and he resented their treatment of his wife—though I +really think, poor Silas, he did not care a pin about her—and he +annoyed them whenever he could. Your papa, you know, is very +proud of his family—<i>he</i> never had the slightest suspicion of your +uncle.'</p> + +<p>'Oh no!' I cried vehemently.</p> + +<p>'That's right, Maud Ruthyn,' said Cousin Monica, with a sad +little smile and a nod. 'And your papa was, you may suppose, +very angry.'</p> + +<p>'Of course he was,' I exclaimed.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67" id="page67"></a>[pg 59]</span> + +<p>'You have no idea, my dear, <i>how</i> angry. He directed his +attorney to prosecute, by wholesale, all who had said a word +affecting your uncle's character. But the lawyers were against it, and +then your uncle tried to fight his way through it, but the men +would not meet him. He was quite slurred. Your father went up +and saw the Minister. He wanted to have him a Deputy-Lieutenant, +or something, in his county. Your papa, you know, had a +very great influence with the Government. Beside his county +influence, he had two boroughs then. But the Minister was +afraid, the feeling was so very strong. They offered him something +in the Colonies, but your father would not hear of it—that +would have been a banishment, you know. They would +have given your father a peerage to make it up, but he would +not accept it, and broke with the party. Except in that way—which, +you know, was connected with the reputation of the +family—I don't think, considering his great wealth, he has done +very much for Silas. To say truth, however, he was very liberal +before his marriage. Old Mrs. Aylmer says he made a vow <i>then</i> +that Silas should never have more than five hundred a year, +which he still allows him, I believe, and he permits him to +live in the place. But they say it is in a very wild, neglected +state.'</p> + +<p>'You live in the same county—have you seen it lately, Cousin +Monica?'</p> + +<p>'No, not very lately,' said Cousin Monica, and began to hum +an air abstractedly.</p> + +<a name="chap13"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XIII</h3> + +<h2><i>BEFORE AND AFTER BREAKFAST</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Next morning early I visited my favourite full-length portrait +in the chocolate coat and top-boots. Scanty as had been my +cousin Monica's notes upon this dark and eccentric biography, +they were everything to me. A soul had entered that enchanted + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68" id="page68"></a>[pg 60]</span> + +form. Truth had passed by with her torch, and a sad light +shone for a moment on that enigmatic face.</p> + +<p>There stood the <i>roué</i>—the duellist—and, with all his faults, the +hero too! In that dark large eye lurked the profound and fiery +enthusiasm of his ill-starred passion. In the thin but exquisite +lip I read the courage of the paladin, who would have 'fought +his way,' though single-handed, against all the magnates of his +county, and by ordeal of battle have purged the honour of the +Ruthyns. There in that delicate half-sarcastic tracery of the nostril +I detected the intellectual defiance which had politically +isolated Silas Ruthyn and opposed him to the landed oligarchy +of his county, whose retaliation had been a hideous slander. +There, too, and on his brows and lip, I traced the patience of a +cold disdain. I could now see him as he was—the prodigal, the +hero, and the martyr. I stood gazing on him with a girlish interest +and admiration. There was indignation, there was pity, +there was hope. Some day it might come to pass that I, girl as +I was, might contribute by word or deed towards the vindication +of that long-suffering, gallant, and romantic prodigal. It was a +flicker of the Joan of Arc inspiration, common, I fancy, to many +girls. I little then imagined how profoundly and strangely involved +my uncle's fate would one day become with mine.</p> + +<p>I was interrupted by Captain Oakley's voice at the window. +He was leaning on the window-sill, and looking in with a smile—the +window being open, the morning sunny, and his cap lifted +in his hand.</p> + +<p>'Good-morning, Miss Ruthyn. What a charming old place! +quite the setting for a romance; such timber, and this really +<i>beautiful</i> house. I <i>do</i> so like these white and black +houses—wonderful old things. By-the-by, you treated us very badly last +night—you did, indeed; upon my word, now, it really was too +bad—running away, and drinking tea with Lady Knollys—so +she says. I really—I should not like to tell you how very savage +I felt, particularly considering how very short my time is.'</p> + +<p>I was a shy, but not a giggling country miss. I knew I was an +heiress; I knew I was somebody. I was not the least bit in the +world conceited, but I think this knowledge helped to give me +a certain sense of security and self-possession, which might have +been mistaken for dignity or simplicity. I am sure I looked at +him with a fearless enquiry, for he answered my thoughts.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69" id="page69"></a>[pg 61]</span> + +<p>'I do really assure you, Miss Ruthyn, I am quite serious; +you have no idea how very much we have missed you.'</p> + +<p>There was a little pause, and, like a fool, I lowered +my eyes, and blushed.</p> + +<p>'I—I was thinking of leaving to-day; I am so unfortunate—my +leave is just out—it is so unlucky; but I don't quite know +whether my aunt Knollys will allow me to go.'</p> + +<p>'<i>I</i>?—certainly, my dear Charlie, <i>I</i> don't want you at all,' +exclaimed a voice—Lady Knollys's—briskly, from an open window +close by; 'what could put that in your head, dear?'</p> + +<p>And in went my cousin's head, and the window shut down.</p> + +<p>'She is <i>such</i> an oddity, poor dear Aunt Knollys,' murmured +the young man, ever so little put out, and he laughed. 'I never +know quite what she wishes, or how to please her; but she's +<i>so</i> good-natured; and when she goes to town for the season—she +does not always, you know—her house is really very gay—you +can't think——'</p> + +<p>Here again he was interrupted, for the door opened, and +Lady Knollys entered. 'And you know, Charles,' she continued, +'it would not do to forget your visit to Snodhurst; you wrote, +you know, and you have only to-night and to-morrow. You are +thinking of nothing but that moor; I heard you talking to the +gamekeeper; I know he is—is not he, Maud, the brown man +with great whiskers, and leggings? I'm very sorry, you know, but +I really must spoil your shooting, for they do expect you at +Snodhurst, Charlie; and do not you think this window a little +too much for Miss Ruthyn? Maud, my dear, the air is very sharp; +shut it down, Charles, and you'd better tell them to get a fly for +you from the town after luncheon. Come, dear,' she said to me. +'Was not that the breakfast bell? Why does not your papa +get a gong?—it is so hard to know one bell from another.'</p> + +<p>I saw that Captain Oakley lingered for a last look, but I did +not give it, and went out smiling with Cousin Knollys, and +wondering why old ladies are so uniformly disagreeable.</p> + +<p>In the lobby she said, with an odd, good-natured look—</p> + +<p>'Don't allow any of his love-making, my dear. Charles Oakley +has not a guinea, and an heiress would be very convenient. +Of course he has his eyes about him. Charles is not by any +means foolish; and I should not be at all sorry to see him well +married, for I don't think he will do much good any other way; + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70" id="page70"></a>[pg 62]</span> + +but there are degrees, and his ideas are sometimes very impertinent.'</p> + +<p>I was an admiring reader of the <i>Albums</i>, the <i>Souvenirs</i>, the +<i>Keepsakes</i>, and all that flood of Christmas-present lore which yearly +irrigated England, with pretty covers and engravings; +and floods of elegant twaddle—the milk, not destitute of water, +on which the babes of literature were then fed. On this, my +genius throve. I had a little album, enriched with many gems +of original thought and observation, which I jotted down in +suitable language. Lately, turning over these faded leaves of +rhyme and prose, I lighted, under this day's date, upon the following sage +reflection, with my name appended:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'Is there not in the female heart an ineradicable jealousy, +which, if it sways the passions of the young, rules also the <i>advice</i> +of the <i>aged</i>? Do they not grudge to youth the sentiments (though +Heaven knows how <i>shadowed</i> with sorrow) which they can <i>no longer +inspire</i>, perhaps even <i>experience</i>; and does not youth, in turn, +sigh over the envy which has <i>power to blight</i>?</p> + +<p class="signature">M<small>AUD</small> A<small>YLMER</small> R<small>UTHYN</small>.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'He has not been making love to me,' I said rather tartly, +'and he does not seem to me at all impertinent, and I really +don't care the least whether he goes or stays.'</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica looked in my face with her old waggish smile, +and laughed.</p> + +<p>'You'll understand those London dandies better some day, +dear Maud; they are very well, but they like money—not to keep, +of course—but still they like it and know its value.'</p> + +<p>At breakfast my father told Captain Oakley where he might +have shooting, or if he preferred going to Dilsford, only half +an hour's ride, he might have his choice of hunters, and find +the dogs there that morning.</p> + +<p>The Captain smiled archly at me, and looked at his aunt. +There was a suspense. I hope I did not show how much I was +interested—but it would not do. Cousin Monica was inexorable.</p> + +<p>'Hunting, hawking, fishing, fiddle-de-dee! You know, Charlie, +my dear, it is quite out of the question. He is going to Snodhurst this +afternoon, and without quite a rudeness, in which + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page71" id="page71"></a>[pg 63]</span> + +I should be involved too, he really can't—you know you can't, +Charles! and—and he <i>must</i> go and keep his engagement.'</p> + +<p>So papa acquiesced with a polite regret, and hoped another +time.</p> + +<p>'Oh, leave all that to me. When you want him, only write me +a note, and I'll send him or bring him if you let me. I always +know where to find him—don't I, Charlie?—and we shall be only +too happy.'</p> + +<p>Aunt Monica's influence with her nephew was special, for she +'tipped' him handsomely every now and then, and he had +formed for himself agreeable expectations, besides, respecting her +will. I felt rather angry at his submitting to this sort of tutelage, +knowing nothing of its motive; I was also disgusted by Cousin +Monica's tyranny.</p> + +<p>So soon as he had left the room, Lady Knollys, not minding +me, said briskly to papa, 'Never let that young man into your +house again. I found him making speeches, this morning, to +little Maud here; and he really has not two pence in the world—it +is amazing impudence—and you know such absurd things +do happen.'</p> + +<p>'Come, Maud, what compliments did he pay you?' asked my +father.</p> + +<p>I was vexed, and therefore spoke courageously. 'His compliments +were not to me; they were all to the house,' I said, drily.</p> + +<p>'Quite as it should be—the house, of course; it is that he's in +love with,' said Cousin Knollys.</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>'Twas on a widow's jointure land,</p> +<p>The archer, Cupid, took his stand.'</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>'Hey! I don't quite understand,' said my father, slily.</p> + +<p>'Tut! Austin; you forget Charlie is my nephew.'</p> + +<p>'So I did,' said my father.</p> + +<p>'Therefore the literal widow in this case <i>can</i> have no interest +in view but one, and that is yours and Maud's. I wish him well, +but he shan't put my little cousin and her expectations into his +empty pocket—<i>not</i> a bit of it. And <i>there's</i> another +reason, Austin, why you should marry—you have no eye for these things, +whereas a clever <i>woman</i> would see at a glance and prevent mischief.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72" id="page72"></a>[pg 64]</span> + +<p>'So she would,' acquiesced my father, in his gloomy, amused +way. 'Maud, you must try to be a clever woman.'</p> + +<p>'So she will in her time, but that is not come yet; and I tell +you, Austin Ruthyn, if you won't look about and marry somebody, +somebody may possibly marry you.'</p> + +<p>'You were always an oracle, Monica; but <i>here</i> I am lost in +total perplexity,' said my father.</p> + +<p>'Yes; sharks sailing round you, with keen eyes and large +throats; and you have come to the age precisely when men <i>are</i> +swallowed up alive like Jonah.'</p> + +<p>'Thank you for the parallel, but you know that was not a +happy union, even for the fish, and there was a separation in a +few days; not that I mean to trust to that; but there's no one to +throw me into the jaws of the monster, and I've no notion of +jumping there; and the fact is, Monica, there's no monster at +all.'</p> + +<p>'I'm not so sure.'</p> + +<p>'But I'm quite sure,' said my father, a little drily. 'You forget +how old I am, and how long I've lived alone—I and little Maud;' +and he smiled and smoothed my hair, and, I thought, sighed.</p> + +<p>'No one is ever too old to do a foolish thing,' began Lady +Knollys.</p> + +<p>'Nor to say a foolish thing, Monica. This has gone on too +long. Don't you see that little Maud here is silly enough to be +frightened at your fun.'</p> + +<p>So I was, but I could not divine how he guessed it.</p> + +<p>'And well or ill, wisely or madly, I'll <i>never</i> marry; so put +that out of your head.'</p> + +<p>This was addressed rather to me, I think, than to Lady +Knollys, who smiled a little waggishly on me, and said—</p> + +<p>'To be sure, Maud; maybe you are right; a stepdame is a +risk, and I ought to have asked you first what you thought of +it; and upon my honour,' she continued merrily but kindly, observing +that my eyes, I know not exactly from what feeling, +filled with tears, 'I'll never again advise your papa to marry, +unless you first tell me you wish it.'</p> + +<p>This was a great deal from Lady Knollys, who had a taste +for advising her friends and managing their affairs.</p> + +<p>'I've a great respect for instinct. I believe, Austin, it is truer +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page73" id="page73"></a>[pg 65]</span> +than reason, and yours and Maud's are both against me, though +I know I have reason on my side.'</p> + +<p>My father's brief wintry smile answered, and Cousin Monica +kissed me, and said—</p> + +<p>'I've been so long my own mistress that I sometimes forget +there are such things as fear and jealousy; and are you going to +your governess, Maud?'</p> + +<a name="chap14"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XIV</h3> + +<h2><i>ANGRY WORDS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I was going to my governess, as Lady Knollys said; and so I +went. The undefinable sense of danger that smote me whenever +I beheld that woman had deepened since last night's occurrence, +and was taken out of the region of instinct or prepossession by +the strange though slight indications of recognition and abhorrence +which I had witnessed in Lady Knollys on that occasion.</p> + +<p>The tone in which Cousin Monica had asked, 'are you going +to your governess?' and the curious, grave, and anxious look +that accompanied the question, disturbed me; and there was +something odd and cold in the tone as if a remembrance had +suddenly chilled her. The accent remained in my ear, and the +sharp brooding look was fixed before me as I glided up the +broad dark stairs to Madame de la Rougierre's chamber.</p> + +<p>She had not come down to the school-room, as the scene of my +studies was called. She had decided on having a relapse, and +accordingly had not made her appearance down-stairs that morning. +The gallery leading to her room was dark and lonely, and +I grew more nervous as I approached; I paused at the door, +making up my mind to knock.</p> + +<p>But the door opened suddenly, and, like a magic-lantern +figure, presented with a snap, appeared close before my eyes +the great muffled face, with the forbidding smirk, of Madame de +la Rougierre.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page74" id="page74"></a>[pg 66]</span> + +<p>'Wat you mean, my dear cheaile?' she inquired with a malevolent +shrewdness in her eyes, and her hollow smile all the time +disconcerting me more even than the suddenness of her appearance; +'wat for you approach so softly? I do not sleep, you see, +but you feared, perhaps, to have the misfortune of wakening me, +and so you came—is it not so?—to leesten, and looke in very +gentily; you want to know how I was. Vous êtes bien aimable +d'avoir pensé à moi. Bah!' she cried, suddenly bursting through +her irony. 'Wy could not Lady Knollys come herself and leesten +to the keyhole to make her report? Fi donc! wat is there to +conceal? Nothing. Enter, if you please. Every one they are +welcome!' and she flung the door wide, turned her back upon +me, and, with an ejaculation which I did not understand, strode +into the room.</p> + +<p>'I did not come with any intention, Madame, to pry or to +intrude—you don't think so—you <i>can't</i> think so—you +can't possibly mean to insinuate anything so insulting!'</p> + +<p>I was very angry, and my tremors had all vanished now.</p> + +<p>'No, not for <i>you</i>, dear cheaile; I was thinking to miladi Knollys, +who, without cause, is my enemy. Every one has enemy; you +will learn all that so soon as you are little older, and without +cause she is mine. Come, Maud, speak a the truth—was it not +miladi Knollys who sent you here doucement, doucement, so +quaite to my door—is it not so, little rogue?'</p> + +<p>Madame had confronted me again, and we were now standing +in the middle of her floor.</p> + +<p>I indignantly repelled the charge, and searching me for a moment +with her oddly-shaped, cunning eyes, she said—</p> + +<p>'That is good cheaile, you speak a so direct—I like that, and +am glad to hear; but, my dear Maud, that woman——'</p> + +<p>'Lady Knollys is papa's cousin,' I interposed a little gravely.</p> + +<p>'She does hate a me so, you av no idea. She as tryed to injure +me several times, and would employ the most innocent person, +unconsciously you know, my dear, to assist her malice.'</p> + +<p>Here Madame wept a little. I had already discovered that she +could shed tears whenever she pleased. I have heard of such +persons, but I never met another before or since.</p> + +<p>Madame was unusually frank—no one ever knew better when +to be candid. At present I suppose she concluded that Lady +Knollys would certainly relate whatever she knew concerning + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page75" id="page75"></a>[pg 67]</span> + +her before she left Knowl; and so Madame's reserves, whatever +they might be, were dissolving, and she growing childlike and +confiding.</p> + +<p>'Et comment va monsieur votre père aujourd'hui?'</p> + +<p>'Very well,' I thanked her.</p> + +<p>'And how long miladi Knollys her visit is likely to be?'</p> + +<p>'I could not say exactly, but for some days.'</p> + +<p>'Eh bien, my dear cheaile, I find myself better this morning, +and we must return to our lessons. Je veux m'habiller, ma chère +Maud; you will wait me in the school-room.'</p> + +<p>By this time Madame, who, though lazy, could make an effort, +and was capable of getting into a sudden hurry, had placed +herself before her dressing-table, and was ogling her discoloured +and bony countenance in the glass.</p> + +<p>'Wat horror! I am so pale. Quel ennui! wat bore! Ow weak +av I grow in two three days!'</p> + +<p>And she practised some plaintive, invalid glances into the +mirror. But on a sudden there came a little sharp inquisitive +frown as she looked over the frame of the glass, upon the terrace +beneath. It was only a glance, and she sat down languidly in her +arm-chair to prepare, I suppose, for the fatigues of the toilet.</p> + +<p>My curiosity was sufficiently aroused to induce me to ask—</p> + +<p>'But why, Madame, do you fancy that Lady Knollys dislikes +you?'</p> + +<p>''Tis not fancy, my dear Maud. Ah ha, no! Mais c'est toute +une histoire—too tedious to tell now—some time maybe—and you +will learn when you are little older, the most violent hatreds +often they are the most without cause. But, my dear cheaile, the +hours they are running from us, and I must dress. Vite, vite! so +you run away to the school-room, and I will come after.'</p> + +<p>Madame had her dressing-case and her mysteries, and palpably +stood in need of repairs; so away I went to my studies. The +room which we called the school-room was partly beneath the +floor of Madame's bed-chamber, and commanded the same view; +so, remembering my governess's peering glance from her windows, +I looked out, and saw Cousin Monica making a brisk +promenade up and down the terrace-walk. Well, that was quite +enough to account for it. I had grown very curious, and I resolved +when our lessons were over to join her and make another +attempt to discover the mystery.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76" id="page76"></a>[pg 68]</span> + +<p>As I sat over my books, I fancied I heard a movement outside +the door. I suspected that Madame was listening. I waited for +a time, expecting to see the door open, but she did not come; so +I opened it suddenly myself, but Madame was not on the threshold +nor on the lobby. I heard a rustling, however, and on the +staircase over the banister I saw the folds of her silk dress as +she descended.</p> + +<p>She is going, I thought, to seek an interview with Lady +Knollys. She intends to propitiate that dangerous lady; so I +amused some eight or ten minutes in watching Cousin Monica's +quick march and right-about face upon the parade-ground of the +terrace. But no one joined her.</p> + +<p>'She is certainly talking to papa,' was my next and more probable +conjecture. Having the profoundest distrust of Madame, I +was naturally extremely jealous of the confidential interviews in +which deceit and malice might make their representations +plausibly and without answer.</p> + +<p>'Yes, I'll run down and see—see <i>papa</i>; she shan't tell lies +behind my back, horrid woman!'</p> + +<p>At the study-door I knocked, and forthwith entered. My +father was sitting near the window, his open book before him, +Madame standing at the other side of the table, her cunning eyes +bathed in tears, and her pocket-handkerchief pressed to her +mouth. Her eyes glittered stealthily on me for an instant: she +was sobbing—<i>désolée</i>, in fact—that grim grenadier lady, and +her attitude was exquisitely dejected and timid. But she was, +notwithstanding, reading closely and craftily my father's face. +He was not looking at her, but rather upward toward the ceiling, +reflectively leaning on his hand, with an expression, not +angry, but rather surly and annoyed.</p> + +<p>'I ought to have heard of this before, Madame,' my father +was saying as I came in; 'not that it would have made any +difference—not the least; mind that. But it was the kind of thing +that I ought to have heard, and the omission was not strictly +right.'</p> + +<p>Madame, in a shrill and lamentable key, opened her voluble +reply, but was arrested by a nod from my father, who asked me +if I wanted anything.</p> + +<p>'Only—only that I was waiting in the school-room for Madame, +and did not know where she was.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page77" id="page77"></a>[pg 69]</span> + +<p>'Well, she is here, you see, and will join you up-stairs in a +few minutes.'</p> + +<p>So back I went again, huffed, angry, and curious, and sat +back in my chair with a clouded countenance, thinking very +little about lessons.</p> + +<p>When Madame entered, I did not lift my head or eyes.</p> + +<p>'Good cheaile! reading,' said she, as she approached briskly +and reassured.</p> + +<p>'No,' I answered tartly; 'not good, nor a child either; I'm +not reading, I've been thinking.'</p> + +<p>'Très-bien!' she said, with an insufferable smile, 'thinking is +very good also; but you look unhappy—very, poor cheaile. Take +care you are not grow jealous for poor Madame talking sometime +to your papa; you must not, little fool. It is only for a +your good, my dear Maud, and I had no objection you should +stay.'</p> + +<p>'<i>You</i>! Madame!' I said loftily. I was very angry, and showed +it through my dignity, to Madame's evident satisfaction.</p> + +<p>'No—it was your papa, Mr. Ruthyn, who weesh to speak +alone; for me I do not care; there was something I weesh to +tell him. I don't care who know, but Mr. Ruthyn he is deeferent.'</p> + +<p>I made no remark.</p> + +<p>'Come, leetle Maud, you are not to be so cross; it will be +much better you and I to be good friends together. Why should +a we quarrel?—wat nonsense! Do you imagine I would anywhere +undertake a the education of a young person unless I +could speak with her parent?—wat folly! I would like to be your +friend, however, my poor Maud, if you would allow—you and I +together—wat you say?'</p> + +<p>'People grow to be friends by liking, Madame, and liking comes +of itself, not by bargain; I like every one who is kind to me.'</p> + +<p>'And so I. You are like me in so many things, my dear +Maud! Are you quaite well to-day? I think you look fateague; +so I feel, too, vary tire. I think we weel put off the lessons +to to-morrow. +Eh? and we will come to play la grace in the garden.'</p> + +<p>Madame was plainly in a high state of exultation. Her +audience had evidently been satisfactory, and, like other people, +when things went well, her soul lighted up into a sulphureous +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78" id="page78"></a>[pg 70]</span> +good-humour, not very genuine nor pleasant, but still it was +better than other moods.</p> + +<p>I was glad when our calisthenics were ended, and Madame +had returned to her apartment, so that I had a pleasant little +walk with Cousin Monica.</p> + +<p>We women are persevering when once our curiosity is roused, +but she gaily foiled mine, and, I think, had a mischievous +pleasure in doing so. As we were going in to dress for dinner, +however, she said, quite gravely—</p> + +<p>'I am sorry, Maud, I allowed you to see that I have any unpleasant +impressions about that governess lady. I shall be at +liberty some day to explain all about it, and, indeed, it will be +enough to tell your father, whom I have not been able to find +all day; but really we are, perhaps, making too much of the +matter, and I cannot say that I know anything against Madame +that is conclusive, or—or, indeed, at all; but that there are +reasons, and—you must not ask any more—no, you must not.'</p> + +<p>That evening, while I was playing the overture to Cenerentola, +for the entertainment of my cousin, there arose from the +tea-table, where she and my father were sitting, a spirited and +rather angry harangue from Lady Knollys' lips; I turned my +eyes from the music towards the speakers; the overture swooned +away with a little hesitating babble into silence, and I listened.</p> + +<p>Their conversation had begun under cover of the music which +I was making, and now they were too much engrossed to perceive +its discontinuance. The first sentence I heard seized my +attention; my father had closed the book he was reading, upon +his finger, and was leaning back in his chair, as he used to do +when at all angry; his face was a little flushed, and I knew the +fierce and glassy stare which expressed pride, surprise, and +wrath.</p> + +<p>'Yes, Lady Knollys, there's an animus; I know the spirit you +speak in—it does you no honour,' said my father.</p> + +<p>'And I know the spirit <i>you</i> speak in, the spirit of <i>madness</i>,' +retorted Cousin Monica, just as much in earnest. 'I can't conceive +how you <i>can</i> be so <i>demented</i>, Austin. What has perverted +you? are you <i>blind</i>?'</p> + +<p>'<i>You</i> are, Monica; your own unnatural prejudice—<i>unnatural</i> +prejudice, blinds you. What is it all?—<i>nothing</i>. Were I to act +as you say, I should be a <i>coward</i> and a traitor. I see, I <i>do</i> see, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page79" id="page79"></a>[pg 71]</span> + +all that's real. I'm no Quixote, to draw my sword on illusions.'</p> + +<p>'There should be no halting here. How <i>can</i> you—do you ever +<i>think</i>? I wonder if you can breathe. I feel as if the evil one were +in the house.'</p> + +<p>A stern, momentary frown was my father's only answer, as he +looked fixedly at her.</p> + +<p>'People need not nail up horseshoes and mark their door-stones +with charms to keep the evil spirit out,' ran on Lady +Knollys, who looked pale and angry, in her way, 'but you +open your door in the dark and invoke unknown danger. How +can you look at that child that's—she's <i>not</i> playing,' said +Knollys, abruptly stopping.</p> + +<p>My father rose, muttering to himself, and cast a lurid glance +at me, as he went in high displeasure to the door. Cousin Monica, +now flushed a little, glanced also silently at me, biting the +tip of her slender gold cross, and doubtful how much I had +heard.</p> + +<p>My father opened the door suddenly, which he had just closed, +and looking in, said, in a calmer tone—</p> + +<p>'Perhaps, Monica, you would come for a moment to the +study; I'm sure you have none but kindly feelings towards me +and little Maud, there; and I thank you for your good-will; +but you must see other things more reasonably, and I think +you will.'</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica got up silently and followed him, only throwing +up her eyes and hands as she did so, and I was left alone, +wondering and curious more than ever.</p> + +<a name="chap15"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XV</h3> + +<h2><i>A WARNING</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I sat still, listening and wondering, and wondering and listening; but I ought to have known that no sound could reach me +where I was from my father's study. Five minutes passed and +they did not return. Ten, fifteen. I drew near the fire and made + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page80" id="page80"></a>[pg 72]</span> + +myself comfortable in a great arm-chair, looking on the embers, +but not seeing all the scenery and <i>dramatis personae</i> of my past +life or future fortunes, in their shifting glow, as people in romances +usually do; but fanciful castles and caverns in blood-red +and golden glare, suggestive of dreamy fairy-land, salamanders, +sunsets, and palaces of fire-kings, and all this partly shaping +and partly shaped by my fancy, and leading my closing eyes +and drowsy senses off into dream-land. So I nodded and dozed, +and sank into a deep slumber, from which I was roused by the +voice of my cousin Monica. On opening my eyes, I saw nothing +but Lady Knollys' face looking steadily into mine, and expanding +into a good-natured laugh as she watched the vacant and +lack-lustre stare with which I returned her gaze.</p> + +<p>'Come, dear Maud, it is late; you ought to have been in your +bed an hour ago.'</p> + +<p>Up I stood, and so soon as I had begun to hear and see aright, +it struck me that Cousin Monica was more grave and subdued +than I had seen her.</p> + +<p>'Come, let us light our candles and go together.'</p> + +<p>Holding hands, we ascended, I sleepy, she silent; and not a +word was spoken until we reached my room. Mary Quince was +in waiting, and tea made.</p> + +<p>'Tell her to come back in a few minutes; I wish to say a word +to you,' said Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>The maid accordingly withdrew.</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys' eyes followed her till she closed the door behind +her.</p> + +<p>'I'm going in the morning.'</p> + +<p>'So soon!'</p> + +<p>'Yes, dear; I could not stay; in fact, I should have gone to-night, +but it was too late, and I leave instead in the morning.'</p> + +<p>'I am so sorry—so <i>very</i> sorry,' I exclaimed, in honest disappointment, +and the walls seemed to darken round me, and the +monotony of the old routine loomed more terrible in prospect.</p> + +<p>'So am I, dear Maud.'</p> + +<p>'But can't you stay a little longer; <i>won't</i> you?'</p> + +<p>'No, Maud; I'm vexed with Austin—very much vexed with +your father; in short, I can't conceive anything so entirely preposterous, +and dangerous, and insane as his conduct, now that +his eyes are quite opened, and I must say a word to you before + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81" id="page81"></a>[pg 73]</span> + +I go, and it is just this:—you must cease to be a mere child, +you must try and be a woman, Maud: now don't be frightened +or foolish, but hear me out. That woman—what does she call +herself—Rougierre? I have reason to believe is—in fact, from +circumstances, <i>must</i> be your enemy; you will find her very deep, +daring, and unscrupulous, I venture to say, and you can't be +too much on your guard. Do you quite understand me, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'I do,' said I, with a gasp, and my eyes fixed on her with a +terrified interest, as if on a warning ghost.</p> + +<p>'You must bridle your tongue, mind, and govern your conduct, +and command even your features. It is hard to practise +reserve; but you must—you must be secret and vigilant. Try and +be in appearance just as usual; don't quarrel; tell her nothing, +if you do happen to know anything, of your father's business; +be always on your guard when with her, and keep your eye +upon her everywhere. Observe everything, disclose nothing—do +you see?'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' again I whispered.</p> + +<p>'You have good, honest servants about you, and, thank God, +they don't like her. But you must not repeat to them one word +I am now saying to you. Servants are fond of dropping hints, +and letting things ooze out in that way, and in their quarrels +with her would compromise you—you understand me?'</p> + +<p>'I do,' I sighed, with a wild stare.</p> + +<p>'And—and, Maud, don't let her meddle with your food.'</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica gave me a pale little nod, and looked away.</p> + +<p>I could only stare at her; and under my breath I uttered an +ejaculation of terror.</p> + +<p>'Don't be so frightened; you must not be foolish; I only wish +you to be upon your guard. I have my suspicions, but I may be +quite wrong; your father thinks I am a fool; perhaps I am—perhaps +not; maybe he may come to think as I do. But you +must not speak to him on the subject; he's an odd man, and +never did and never will act wisely, when his passions and prejudices +are engaged.'</p> + +<p>'Has she ever committed any great crime?' I asked, feeling +as if I were on the point of fainting.</p> + +<p>'No, dear Maud, I never said anything of the kind; don't be +so frightened: I only said I have formed, from something I +know, an ill opinion of her; and an unprincipled person, under + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82" id="page82"></a>[pg 74]</span> + +temptation, is capable of a great deal. But no matter how wicked +she may be, you may defy her, simply by assuming her to be so, +and acting with caution; she is cunning and selfish, and she'll +do nothing desperate. But I would give her no opportunity.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, dear! Oh, Cousin Monica, don't leave me.'</p> + +<p>'My dear, I <i>can't</i> stay; your papa and I—we've had a quarrel. +I know I'm right, and he's wrong, and he'll come to see it soon, +if he's left to himself, and then all will be right. But just now +he misunderstands me, and we've not been civil to one another. +I could not think of staying, and he would not allow you to +come away with me for a short visit, which I wished. It won't +last, though; and I do assure you, my dear Maud, I am quite +happy about you now that you are quite on your guard. Just +act respecting that person as if she were capable of any treachery, +without showing distrust or dislike in your manner, and nothing +will remain in her power; and write to me whenever you wish +to hear from me, and if I can be of any real use, I don't care, +I'll come: so there's a wise little woman; do as I've said, and +depend upon it everything will go well, and I'll contrive before +long to get that nasty creature away.'</p> + +<p>Except a kiss and a few hurried words in the morning when +she was leaving, and a pencilled farewell for papa, there was +nothing more from Cousin Monica for some time.</p> + +<p>Knowl was dark again—darker than ever. My father, gentle +always to me, was now—perhaps it was contrast with his fitful +return to something like the world's ways, during Lady Knollys' +stay—more silent, sad, and isolated than before. Of Madame de +la Rougierre I had nothing at first particular to remark. Only, +reader, if you happen to be a rather nervous and very young +girl, I ask you to conceive my fears and imaginings, and the +kind of misery which I was suffering. Its intensity I cannot now +even myself recall. But it overshadowed me perpetually—a care, +an alarm. It lay down with me at night and got up with me in +the morning, tinting and disturbing my dreams, and making +my daily life terrible. I wonder now that I lived through the +ordeal. The torment was secret and incessant, and kept my mind +in unintermitting activity.</p> + +<p>Externally things went on at Knowl for some weeks in the +usual routine. Madame was, so far as her unpleasant ways were +concerned, less tormenting than before, and constantly reminded + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page83" id="page83"></a>[pg 75]</span> + +me of 'our leetle vow of friendship, you remember, dearest +Maud!' and she would stand beside me, and looked from the +window with her bony arm round my waist, and my reluctant +hand drawn round in hers; and thus she would smile, and talk +affectionately and even playfully; for at times she would grow +quite girlish, and smile with her great carious teeth, and begin +to quiz and babble about the young 'faylows,' and tell bragging +tales of her lovers, all of which were dreadful to me.</p> + +<p>She was perpetually recurring, too, to the charming walk we +had had together to Church Scarsdale, and proposing a repetition +of that delightful excursion, which, you may be sure, I +evaded, having by no means so agreeable a recollection of our +visit.</p> + +<p>One day, as I was dressing to go out for a walk, in came good +Mrs. Rusk, the housekeeper, to my room.</p> + +<p>'Miss Maud, dear, is not that too far for you? It is a long +walk to Church Scarsdale, and you are not looking very well.'</p> + +<p>'To Church Scarsdale?' I repeated; 'I'm not going to +Church Scarsdale; who said I was going to Church Scarsdale? +There is nothing I should so much dislike.'</p> + +<p>'Well, I never!' exclaimed she. 'Why, there's old Madame's +been down-stairs with me for fruit and sandwiches, telling me +you were longing to go to Church Scarsdale——'</p> + +<p>'It's quite untrue,' I interrupted. 'She knows I hate it.'</p> + +<p>'She does?' said Mrs. Rusk, quietly; 'and you did not tell +her nothing about the basket? Well—if there isn't a story! Now +what may she be after—what is it—what <i>is</i> she driving at?'</p> + +<p>'I can't tell, but I won't go.'</p> + +<p>'No, of course, dear, you won't go. But you may be sure +there's some scheme in her old head. Tom Fowkes says she's bin +two or three times to drink tea at Farmer Gray's—now, could it +be she's thinking to marry him?' And Mrs. Rusk sat down and +laughed heartily, ending with a crow of derision.</p> + +<p>'To think of a young fellow like that, and his wife, poor +thing, not dead a year—maybe she's got money?'</p> + +<p>'I don't know—I don't care—perhaps, Mrs. Rusk, you mistook +Madame. I will go down; I am going out.'</p> + +<p>Madame had a basket in her hand. She held it quietly by her +capacious skirt, at the far side, and made no allusion to the +preparation, neither to the direction in which she proposed + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page84" id="page84"></a>[pg 76]</span> + +walking, and prattling artlessly and affectionately she marched +by my side.</p> + +<p>Thus we reached the stile at the sheep-walk, and then I +paused.</p> + +<p>'Now, Madame, have not we gone far enough in this direction?—suppose +we visit the pigeon-house in the park?'</p> + +<p>'Wat folly! my dear a Maud—you cannot walk so far.'</p> + +<p>'Well, towards home, then.'</p> + +<p>'And wy not a this way? We ave not walk enough, and Mr. +Ruthyn he will not be pleased if you do not take proper exercise. +Let us walk on by the path, and stop when you like.'</p> + +<p>'Where do you wish to go, Madame?'</p> + +<p>'Nowhere particular—come along; don't be fool, Maud.'</p> + +<p>'This leads to Church Scarsdale.'</p> + +<p>'A yes indeed! wat sweet place! bote we need not a walk +all the way to there.'</p> + +<p>'I'd rather not walk outside the grounds to-day, Madame.'</p> + +<p>'Come, Maud, you shall not be fool—wat you mean, Mademoiselle?' +said the stalworth lady, growing yellow and greenish +with an angry mottling, and accosting me very gruffly.</p> + +<p>'I don't care to cross the stile, thank you, Madame. I shall +remain at this side.'</p> + +<p>'You shall do wat I tell you!' exclaimed she.</p> + +<p>'Let go my arm, Madame, you hurt me,' I cried.</p> + +<p>She had griped my arm very firmly in her great bony hand, +and seemed preparing to drag me over by main force.</p> + +<p>'Let me go,' I repeated shrilly, for the pain increased.</p> + +<p>'La!' she cried with a smile of rage and a laugh, letting me +go and shoving me backward at the same time, so that I had a +rather dangerous tumble.</p> + +<p>I stood up, a good deal hurt, and very angry, notwithstanding +my fear of her.</p> + +<p>'I'll ask papa if I am to be so ill-used.'</p> + +<p>'Wat av I done?' cried Madame, laughing grimly from her +hollow jaws; I did all I could to help you over—'ow could I +prevent you to pull back and tumble if you would do so? That +is the way wen you petites Mademoiselles are naughty and hurt +yourself they always try to make blame other people. Tell a wat +you like—you think I care?'</p> + +<p>'Very well, Madame.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85" id="page85"></a>[pg 77]</span> + +<p>'Are a you coming?'</p> + +<p>'No.'</p> + +<p>She looked steadily in my face and very wickedly. I gazed at +her as with dazzled eyes—I suppose as the feathered prey do at +the owl that glares on them by night. I neither moved back nor +forward, but stared at her quite helplessly.</p> + +<p>'You are nice pupil—charming young person! So polite, so +obedient, so amiable! I will walk towards Church Scarsdale,' +she continued, suddenly breaking through the conventionalism +of her irony, and accosting me in savage accents. 'You weel +stay behind if you dare. I tell you to accompany—do you hear?'</p> + +<p>More than ever resolved against following her, I remained +where I was, watching her as she marched fiercely away, swinging +her basket as though in imagination knocking my head +off with it.</p> + +<p>She soon cooled, however, and looking over her shoulder, and +seeing me still at the other side of the stile, she paused, and +beckoned me grimly to follow her. Seeing me resolutely maintain +my position, she faced about, tossed her head, like an angry +beast, and seemed uncertain for a while what course to take +with me.</p> + +<p>She stamped and beckoned furiously again. I stood firm. I +was very much frightened, and could not tell to what violence +she might resort in her exasperation. She walked towards me +with an inflamed countenance, and a slight angry wagging of +the head; my heart fluttered, and I awaited the crisis in extreme +trepidation. She came close, the stile only separating us, and +stopped short, glaring and grinning at me like a French grenadier +who has crossed bayonets, but hesitates to close.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86" id="page86"></a>[pg 78]</span> + +<a name="chap16"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XVI</h3> + +<h2><i>DOCTOR BRYERLY LOOKS IN</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>What had I done to excite this ungovernable fury? We had +often before had such small differences, and she had contented +herself with being sarcastic, teasing, and impertinent.</p> + +<p>'So, for future you are gouvernante and I the cheaile for you +to command—is not so?—and you must direct where we shall +walk. Très-bien! we shall see; Monsieur Ruthyn he shall know +everything. For me I do not care—not at all—I shall be rather +pleased, on the contrary. Let him decide. If I shall be responsible +for the conduct and the health of Mademoiselle his daughter, +it must be that I shall have authority to direct her wat she +must do—it must be that she or I shall obey. I ask only witch +shall command for the future—voilà tout!'</p> + +<p>I was frightened, but resolute—I dare say I looked sullen and +uncomfortable. At all events, she seemed to think she might +possibly succeed by wheedling; so she tried coaxing and cajoling, +and patted my cheek, and predicted that I would be 'a good +cheaile,' and not 'vex poor Madame,' but do for the future 'wat +she tell a me.'</p> + +<p>She smiled her wide wet grin, smoothed my hand, and patted +my cheek, and would in the excess of her conciliatory paroxysm +have kissed me; but I withdrew, and she commented only with +a little laugh, and a 'Foolish little thing! but you will be quite +amiable just now.'</p> + +<p>'Why, Madame,' I asked, suddenly raising my head and looking her +straight in the face, 'do you wish me to walk to Church +Scarsdale so particularly to-day?'</p> + +<p>She answered my steady look with a contracted gaze and an +unpleasant frown.</p> + +<p>'Wy do I?—I do not understand a you; there is <i>no</i> particular +day—wat folly! Wy I like Church Scarsdale? Well, it is such + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87" id="page87"></a>[pg 79]</span> + +pretty place. There is all! Wat leetle fool! I suppose you think +I want to keel a you and bury you in the churchyard?'</p> + +<p>And she laughed, and it would not have been a bad laugh for +a ghoul.</p> + +<p>'Come, my dearest Maud, you are not a such fool to say, if +<i>you</i> tell me me go thees a way, I weel go that; and if you say, +go that a way, I weel go thees—you are rasonable leetle girl—come +along—<i>alons donc</i>—we shall av soche agreeable walk—weel +a you?'</p> + +<p>But I was immovable. It was neither obstinacy nor caprice, +but a profound fear that governed me. I was then afraid—yes, +<i>afraid</i>. Afraid of <i>what</i>? Well, of going with Madame de la +Rougierre to Church Scarsdale that day. That was all. And I +believe that instinct was true.</p> + +<p>She turned a bitter glance toward Church Scarsdale, and bit +her lip. She saw that she must give it up. A shadow hung upon +her drab features. A little scowl—a little sneer—wide lips compressed +with a false smile, and a leaden shadow mottling all. +Such was the countenance of the lady who only a minute or two +before had been smiling and murmuring over the stile so amiably with +her idiomatic 'blarney,' as the Irish call that kind of blandishment.</p> + +<p>There was no mistaking the malignant disappointment that +hooked and warped her features—my heart sank—a tremendous +fear overpowered me. Had she intended poisoning me? What +was in that basket? I looked in her dreadful face. I felt for a +minute quite frantic. A feeling of rage with my father, with my +Cousin Monica, for abandoning me to this dreadful rogue, took +possession of me, and I cried, helplessly wringing my hands—</p> + +<p>'Oh! it is a shame—it is a shame—it is a shame!'</p> + +<p>The countenance of the gouvernante relaxed. I think she in +turn was frightened at my extreme agitation. It might have +worked unfavourably with my father.</p> + +<p>'Come, Maud, it is time you should try to control your temper. +You shall not walk to Church Scarsdale if you do not like—I +only invite. <i>There</i>! It is quite as you please, where we shall +walk then? Here to the peegeon-house? I think you say. +Tout bien! Remember I concede you everything. Let us go.'</p> + +<p>We went, therefore, towards the pigeon-house, through the +forest trees; I not speaking as the children in the wood did + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88" id="page88"></a>[pg 80]</span> + +with their sinister conductor, but utterly silent and scared; she +silent also, meditating, and sometimes with a sharp side-glance +gauging my progress towards equanimity. Her own was rapid; +for Madame was a philosopher, and speedily accommodated +herself to circumstances. We had not walked a quarter of an +hour when every trace of gloom had left her face, which had +assumed its customary brightness, and she began to sing with a +spiteful hilarity as we walked forward, and indeed seemed to be +approaching one of her waggish, frolicsome moods. But her fun +in these moods was solitary. The joke, whatever it was, remained +in her own keeping. When we approached the ruined brick +tower—in old times a pigeon-house—she grew quite frisky, and +twirled her basket in the air, and capered to her own singing.</p> + +<p>Under the shadow of the broken wall, and its ivy, she sat +down with a frolicsome <i>plump</i>, and opened her basket, inviting +me to partake, which I declined. I must do her justice, however, +upon the suspicion of poison, which she quite disposed of by +gobbling up, to her own share, everything which the basket contained.</p> + +<p>The reader is not to suppose that Madame's cheerful demeanour +indicated that I was forgiven. Nothing of the kind. +One syllable more, on our walk home, she addressed not to me. +And when we reached the terrace, she said—</p> + +<p>'You will please, Maud, remain for two—three minutes in the +Dutch garden, while I speak with Mr. Ruthyn in the study.'</p> + +<p>This was spoken with a high head and an insufferable smile; +and I more haughtily, but quite gravely, turned without disputing, +and descended the steps to the quaint little garden she +had indicated.</p> + +<p>I was surprised and very glad to see my father there. I ran +to him, and began, 'Oh! papa!' and then stopped short, adding +only, 'may I speak to you now?'</p> + +<p>He smiled kindly and gravely on me.</p> + +<p>'Well, Maud, say your say.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, sir, it is only this: I entreat that our walks, mine and +Madame's may be confined to the grounds.'</p> + +<p>'And why?'</p> + +<p>'I—I'm afraid to go with her.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Afraid!</i>' he repeated, looking hard at me. 'Have you lately +had a letter from Lady Knollys?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page89" id="page89"></a>[pg 81]</span> + +<p>'No, papa, not for two months or more.'</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>'And why <i>afraid</i>, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'She brought me one day to Church Scarsdale; you know +what a solitary place it is, sir; and she frightened me so that I +was afraid to go with her into the churchyard. But she went and +left me alone at the other side of the stream, and an impudent +man passing by stopped and spoke to me, and seemed inclined +to laugh at me, and altogether frightened me very much, and +he did not go till Madame happened to return.'</p> + +<p>'What kind of man—young or old?'</p> + +<p>'A young man; he looked like a farmer's son, but very impudent, and +stood there talking to me whether I would or not; +and Madame did not care at all, and laughed at me for being +frightened; and, indeed, I am very uncomfortable with her.'</p> + +<p>He gave me another shrewd look, and then looked down +cloudily and thought.</p> + +<p>'You say you are uncomfortable and frightened. How is this—what +causes these feelings?'</p> + +<p>'I don't know, sir; she likes frightening me; I am afraid of +her—we are all afraid of her, I think. The servants, I mean, +as well as I.'</p> + +<p>My father nodded his head contemptuously, twice or thrice, +and muttered, 'A pack of fools!'</p> + +<p>'And she was so very angry to-day with me, because I would +not walk again with her to Church Scarsdale. I am very much +afraid of her. I—' and quite unpremeditatedly I burst into tears.</p> + +<p>'There, there, little Maud, you must not cry. She is here +only for your good. If you are afraid—even <i>foolishly</i> afraid—it +is enough. Be it as you say; your walks are henceforward confined +to the grounds; I'll tell her so.'</p> + +<p>I thanked him through my tears very earnestly.</p> + +<p>'But, Maud, beware of prejudice; women are unjust and +violent in their judgments. Your family has suffered in some of +its members by such injustice. It behoves us to be careful not +to practise it.'</p> + +<p>That evening in the drawing-room my father said, in his +usual abrupt way—</p> + +<p>'About my departure, Maud: I've had a letter from London +this morning, and I think I shall be called away sooner than I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page90" id="page90"></a>[pg 82]</span> + +at first supposed, and for a little time we must manage apart +from one another. Do not be alarmed. You shall not be in +Madame de la Rougierre's charge, but under the care of a relation; +but even so, little Maud will miss her old father, I +think.'</p> + +<p>His tone was very tender, so were his looks; he was looking +down on me with a smile, and tears were in his eyes. This +softening was new to me. I felt a strange thrill of surprise, +delight, and love, and springing up, I threw my arms about his +neck and wept in silence. He, I think, shed tears also.</p> + +<p>'You said a visitor was coming; some one, you mean, to go +away with. Ah, yes, you love him better than me.'</p> + +<p>'No, dear, no; but I <i>fear</i> him; and I am sorry to leave you, +little Maud.'</p> + +<p>'It won't be very long,' I pleaded.</p> + +<p>'No, dear,' he answered with a sigh.</p> + +<p>I was tempted almost to question him more closely on the +subject, but he seemed to divine what was in my mind, for he +said—</p> + +<p>'Let us speak no more of it, but only bear in mind, Maud, +what I told you about the oak cabinet, the key of which is here,' +and he held it up as formerly: 'you remember what you are to +do in case Doctor Bryerly should come while I am away?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir.'</p> + +<p>His manner had changed, and I had returned to my accustomed +formalities.</p> + +<p>It was only a few days later that Dr. Bryerly actually did +arrive at Knowl, quite unexpectedly, except, I suppose, by my +father. He was to stay only one night.</p> + +<p>He was twice closeted in the little study up-stairs with my +father, who seemed to me, even for him, unusually dejected, +and Mrs. Rusk inveighing against 'them rubbitch,' as she always +termed the Swedenborgians, told me 'they were making him +quite shaky-like, and he would not last no time, if that lanky, +lean ghost of a fellow in black was to keep prowling in and +out of his room like a tame cat.'</p> + +<p>I lay awake that night, wondering what the mystery might be +that connected my father and Dr. Bryerly. There was something +more than the convictions of their strange religion could account +for. There was something that profoundly agitated my father. + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page91" id="page91"></a>[pg 83]</span> + +It may not be reasonable, but so it is. The person whose presence, +though we know nothing of the cause of that effect, is +palpably attended with pain to anyone who is dear to us, grows +odious, and I began to detest Doctor Bryerly.</p> + +<p>It was a grey, dark morning, and in a dark pass in the gallery, +near the staircase, I came full upon the ungainly Doctor, in his +glossy black suit.</p> + +<p>I think, if my mind had been less anxiously excited on the +subject of his visit, or if I had not disliked him so much, I +should not have found courage to accost him as I did. There was +something sly, I thought, in his dark, lean face; and he +looked so low, so like a Scotch artisan in his Sunday clothes, +that I felt a sudden pang of indignation, at the thought that +a great gentleman, like my father, should have suffered under +his influence, and I stopped suddenly, instead of passing him by +with a mere salutation, as he expected, 'May I ask a question, Doctor +Bryerly?'</p> + +<p>'Certainly'</p> + +<p>'Are you the friend whom my father expects?'</p> + +<p>'I don't quite see.'</p> + +<p>'The friend, I mean, with whom he is to make an expedition to some distance, I think, and for some little time?'</p> + +<p>'No,' said the Doctor, with a shake of his head.</p> + +<p>'And who is he?'</p> + +<p>'I really have not a notion, Miss.'</p> + +<p>'Why, he said that <i>you knew</i>,' I replied.</p> + +<p>The Doctor looked honestly puzzled.</p> + +<p>'Will he stay long away? pray tell me.'</p> + +<p>The Doctor looked into my troubled face with inquiring and +darkened eyes, like one who half reads another's meaning; and +then he said a little briskly, but not sharply—</p> + +<p>'Well, <i>I</i> don't know, I'm sure, Miss; no, indeed, you must +have mistaken; there's nothing that <i>I</i> know.'</p> + +<p>There was a little pause, and he added—</p> + +<p>'No. He never mentioned any friend to me.' I fancied that +he was made uncomfortable by my question, and wanted to hide +the truth. Perhaps I was partly right.</p> + +<p>'Oh! Doctor Bryerly, pray, <i>pray</i> who is the friend, and where +is he going?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page92" id="page92"></a>[pg 84]</span> + +<p>'I do <i>assure</i> you,' he said, with a strange sort of impatience, +'I don't know; it is all nonsense.'</p> + +<p>And he turned to go, looking, I think, annoyed and disconcerted.</p> + +<p>A terrific suspicion crossed my brain like lightning.</p> + +<p>'Doctor, one word,' I said, I believe, quite wildly. 'Do you—do +you think his mind is at all affected?'</p> + +<p>'Insane?' he said, looking at me with a sudden, sharp inquisitiveness, +that brightened into a smile. 'Pooh, pooh! Heaven +forbid! not a saner man in England.'</p> + +<p>Then with a little nod he walked on, carrying, as I believed, +notwithstanding his disclaimer, the secret with him. In the +afternoon Doctor Bryerly went away.</p> + +<a name="chap17"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XVII</h3> + +<h2><i>AN ADVENTURE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>For many days after our quarrel, Madame hardly spoke to +me. As for lessons, I was not much troubled with them. It was +plain, too, that my father had spoken to her, for she never after +that day proposed our extending our walks beyond the precincts of Knowl.</p> + +<p>Knowl, however, was a very considerable territory, and it +was possible for a much better pedestrian than I to tire herself +effectually, without passing its limits. So we took occasionally +long walks.</p> + +<p>After some weeks of sullenness, during which for days at a +time she hardly spoke to me, and seemed lost in dark and evil +abstraction, she once more, and somewhat suddenly, recovered +her spirits, and grew quite friendly. Her gaieties and friendliness +were not reassuring, and in my mind presaged approaching +mischief and treachery. The days were shortening to the wintry +span. The edge of the red sun had already touched the horizon + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93" id="page93"></a>[pg 85]</span> + +as Madame and I, overtaken at the warren by his last beams, +were hastening homeward.</p> + +<p>A narrow carriage-road traverses this wild region of the park, +to which a distant gate gives entrance. On descending into this +unfrequented road, I was surprised to see a carriage standing +there. A thin, sly postilion, with that pert, turned-up nose which +the old caricaturist Woodward used to attribute to the gentlemen +of Tewkesbury, was leaning on his horses, and looked hard at +me as I passed. A lady who sat within looked out, with an extra-fashionable +bonnet on, and also treated us to a stare. Very +pink and white cheeks she had, very black glossy hair and bright +eyes—fat, bold, and rather cross, she looked—and in her bold +way she examined us curiously as we passed.</p> + +<p>I mistook the situation. It had once happened before that an +intending visitor at Knowl had entered the place by that park-road, +and lost several hours in a vain search for the house.</p> + +<p>'Ask him, Madame, whether they want to go to the house; I +dare say they have missed their way,' whispered I.</p> + +<p>'<i>Eh bien,</i> they will find again. I do not choose to talk to post-boys; +<i>allons</i>!'</p> + +<p>But I asked the man as we passed, 'Do you want to reach +the house?'</p> + +<p>By this time he was at the horses' heads, buckling the harness.</p> + +<p>'Noa,' he said in a surly tone, smiling oddly on the winkers, +but, recollecting his politeness, he added, 'Noa, thankee, misses, +it's what they calls a picnic; we'll be takin' the road now.'</p> + +<p>He was smiling now on a little buckle with which he was +engaged.</p> + +<p>'Come—nonsense!' whispered Madame sharply in my ear, +and she whisked me by the arm, so we crossed the little stile +at the other side.</p> + +<p>Our path lay across the warren, which undulates in little +hillocks. The sun was down by this time, blue shadows were +stretching round us, colder in the splendid contrast of the +burnished sunset sky.</p> + +<p>Descending over these hillocks we saw three figures a little in +advance of us, not far from the path we were tracing. Two were +standing smoking and chatting at intervals: one tall and slim, +with a high chimney-pot, worn a little on one side, and a white + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page94" id="page94"></a>[pg 86]</span> + +great-coat buttoned up to the chin; the other shorter and +stouter, with a dark-coloured wrapper. These gentlemen were +facing rather our way as we came over the edge of the eminence, +but turned their backs on perceiving our approach. As they did +so, I remember so well each lowered his cigar suddenly with +the simultaneousness of a drill. The third figure sustained the +picnic character of the group, for he was repacking a hamper. +He stood suddenly erect as we drew near, and a very ill-looking +person he was, low-browed, square-chinned, and with a broad, +broken nose. He wore gaiters, and was a little bandy, very broad, +and had a closely-cropped bullet head, and deep-set little eyes. +The moment I saw him, I beheld the living type of the burglars +and bruisers whom I had so often beheld with a kind of scepticism +in <i>Punch</i>. He stood over his hamper and scowled sharply +at us for a moment; then with the point of his foot he jerked +a little fur cap that lay on the ground into his hand, drew it +tight over his lowering brows, and called to his companions, +just as we passed him—'Hallo! mister. How's this?'</p> + +<p>'All right,' said the tall person in the white great-coat, who, +as he answered, shook his shorter companion by the arm, I +thought angrily.</p> + +<p>This shorter companion turned about. He had a muffler loose +about his neck and chin. I thought he seemed shy and irresolute, +and the tall man gave him a great jolt with his elbow, which +made him stagger, and I fancied a little angry, for he said, as it +seemed, a sulky word or two.</p> + +<p>The gentleman in the white surtout, however, standing direct +in our way, raised his hat with a mock salutation, placing his +hand on his breast, and forthwith began to advance with an +insolent grin and an air of tipsy frolic.</p> + +<p>'Jist in time, ladies; five minutes more and we'd a bin off. +Thankee, Mrs. Mouser, ma'am, for the honour of the meetin', +and more particular for the pleasure of making your young +lady's acquaintance—niece, ma'am? daughter, ma'am? granddaughter, +by Jove, is it? Hallo! there, mild 'n, I say, stop +packin'.' This was to the ill-favoured person with the broken +nose. 'Bring us a couple o' glasses and a bottle o' curaçoa; what +are you fear'd on, my dear? this is Lord Lollipop, here, a reg'lar +charmer, wouldn't hurt a fly, hey Lolly? Isn't he pretty, Miss? +and I'm Sir Simon Sugarstick—so called after old Sir Simon, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page95" id="page95"></a>[pg 87]</span> + +ma'am; and I'm so tall and straight, Miss, and slim—ain't I? +and ever so sweet, my honey, when you come to know me, just +like a sugarstick; ain't I, Lolly, boy?'</p> + +<p>'I'm Miss Ruthyn, tell them, Madame,' I said, stamping on +the ground, and very much frightened.</p> + +<p>'Be quaite, Maud. If you are angry, they will hurt us; leave +me to speak,' whispered the gouvernante.</p> + +<p>All this time they were approaching from separate points. I +glanced back, and saw the ruffianly-looking man within a yard +or two, with his arm raised and one finger up, telegraphing, as +it seemed, to the gentlemen in front.</p> + +<p>'Be quaite, Maud,' whispered Madame, with an awful adjuration, +which I do not care to set down. 'They are teepsy; don't +seem 'fraid.'</p> + +<p>I <i>was</i> afraid—terrified. The circle had now so narrowed that +they might have placed their hands on my shoulders.</p> + +<p>'Pray, gentlemen, wat you want? <i>weel</i> a you 'av the goodness +to permit us to go on?'</p> + +<p>I now observed for the first time, with a kind of shock, that +the shorter of the two men, who prevented our advance, was +the person who had accosted me so offensively at Church Scarsdale. +I pulled Madame by the arm, whispering, 'Let us run.'</p> + +<p>'Be quaite, my dear Maud,' was her only reply.</p> + +<p>'I tell you what,' said the tall man, who had replaced his high +hat more jauntily than before on the side of his head, 'We've +caught you now, fair game, and we'll let you off on conditions. +You must not be frightened, Miss. Upon my honour and soul, +I mean no mischief; do I, Lollipop? I call him Lord Lollipop; +it's only chaff, though; his name's Smith. Now, Lolly, I vote we +let the prisoners go, when we just introduce them to Mrs. +Smith; she's sitting in the carriage, and keeps Mr. S. here in +precious good order, I promise you. There's easy terms for you, +eh, and we'll have a glass o' curaçoa round, and so part friends. +Is it a bargain? Come!'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Maud, we must go—wat matter?' whispered Madame +vehemently.</p> + +<p>'You shan't,' I said, instinctively terrified.</p> + +<p>'You'll go with Ma'am, young 'un, won't you?' said Mr. Smith, +as his companion called him.</p> + +<p>Madame was holding my arm, but I snatched it from her, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96" id="page96"></a>[pg 88]</span> +would have run; the tall man, however, placed his arms round +me and held me fast with an affectation of playfulness, but his +grip was hard enough to hurt me a good deal. Being now +thoroughly frightened, after an ineffectual struggle, during +which I heard Madame say, 'You fool, Maud, weel you come +with me? see wat you are doing,' I began to scream, shriek after +shriek, which the man attempted to drown with loud hooting, +peals of laughter, forcing his handkerchief against my mouth, +while Madame continued to bawl her exhortations to 'be +quaite' in my ear.</p> + +<p>'I'll lift her, I say!' said a gruff voice behind me.</p> + +<p>But at this instant, wild with terror, I distinctly heard other +voices shouting. The men who surrounded me were instantly +silent, and all looked in the direction of the sound, now very +near, and I screamed with redoubled energy. The ruffian behind +me thrust his great hand over my mouth.</p> + +<p>'It is the gamekeeper,' cried Madame. '<i>Two</i> gamekeepers—we +are safe—thank Heaven!' and she began to call on Dykes by +name.</p> + +<p>I only remember, feeling myself at liberty—running a few +steps—seeing Dykes' white furious face—clinging to his arm, +with which he was bringing his gun to a level, and saying, 'Don't +fire—they'll murder us if you do.'</p> + +<p>Madame, screaming lustily, ran up at the same moment.</p> + +<p>'Run on to the gate and lock it—I'll be wi' ye in a minute,' +cried he to the other gamekeeper; who started instantly on this +mission, for the three ruffians were already in full retreat for +the carriage.</p> + +<p>Giddy—wild—fainting—still terror carried me on.</p> + +<p>'Now, Madame Rogers—s'pose you take young Misses on—I +must run and len' Bill a hand.'</p> + +<p>'No, no; you moste not,' cried Madame. 'I am fainting myself, +and more villains they may be near to us.'</p> + +<p>But at this moment we heard a shot, and, muttering to himself +and grasping his gun, Dykes ran at his utmost speed in the +direction of the sound.</p> + +<p>With many exhortations to speed, and ejaculations of alarm, +Madame hurried me on toward the house, which at length we +reached without further adventure.</p> + +<p>As it happened, my father met us in the hall. He was perfectly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>[pg 89]</span> +transported with fury on hearing from Madame what had happened, +and set out at once, with some of the servants, in the +hope of intercepting the party at the park-gate.</p> + +<p>Here was a new agitation; for my father did not return for +nearly three hours, and I could not conjecture what might be +occurring during the period of his absence. My alarm was +greatly increased by the arrival in the interval of poor Bill, the +under-gamekeeper, very much injured.</p> + +<p>Seeing that he was determined to intercept their retreat, the +three men had set upon him, wrested his gun, which exploded +in the struggle, from him, and beat him savagely. I mention +these particulars, because they convinced everybody that there +was something specially determined and ferocious in the spirit +of the party, and that the fracas was no mere frolic, but the +result of a predetermined plan.</p> + +<p>My father had not succeeded in overtaking them. He traced +them to the Lugton Station, where they had taken the railway, +and no one could tell him in what direction the carriage and +posthorses had driven.</p> + +<p>Madame was, or affected to be, very much shattered by what +had occurred. Her recollection and mine, when my father questioned +us closely, differed very materially respecting many details +of the <i>personnel</i> of the villanous party. She was obstinate +and clear; and although the gamekeeper corroborated my description +of them, still my father was puzzled. Perhaps he was +not sorry that some hesitation was forced upon him, because +although at first he would have gone almost any length to detect +the persons, on reflection he was pleased that there was not +evidence to bring them into a court of justice, the publicity and +annoyance of which would have been inconceivably distressing +to me.</p> + +<p>Madame was in a strange state—tempestuous in temper, talking +incessantly—every now and then in floods of tears, and perpetually +on her knees pouring forth torrents of thanksgiving to +Heaven for our joint deliverance from the hands of those villains. +Notwithstanding our community of danger and her thankfulness +on my behalf, however, she broke forth into wrath and +railing whenever we were alone together.</p> + +<p>'Wat fool you were! so disobedient and obstinate; if you 'ad +done wat <i>I</i> say, then we should av been quaite safe; those persons +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>[pg 90]</span> +they were tipsy, and there is nothing so dangerous as to +quarrel with tipsy persons; I would 'av brought you quaite +safe—the lady she seem so nice and quaite, and we should 'av +been safe with her—there would 'av been nothing absolutely; +but instead you would scream and pooshe, and so they grow +quite wild, and all the impertinence and violence follow of +course; and that a poor Bill—all his beating and danger to his +life it is cause entairely by you.'</p> + +<p>And she spoke with more real virulence than that kind of upbraiding +generally exhibits.</p> + +<p>'The beast!' exclaimed Mrs. Rusk, when she, I, and Mary +Quince were in my room together, 'with all her crying and praying, +I'd like to know as much as she does, maybe, about them +rascals. There never was sich like about the place, long as I +remember it, till she came to Knowl, old witch! with them unmerciful +big bones of hers, and her great bald head, grinning +here, and crying there, and her nose everywhere. The old French +hypocrite!'</p> + +<p>Mary Quince threw in an observation, and I believe Mrs. +Rusk rejoined, but I heard neither. For whether the housekeeper +spoke with reflection or not, what she said affected me +strangely. Through the smallest aperture, for a moment, I had +had a peep into Pandemonium. Were not peculiarities of Madame's +demeanour and advice during the adventure partly accounted +for by the suggestion? Could the proposed excursion to +Church Scarsdale have had any purpose of the same sort? What +was proposed? How was Madame interested in it? Were such +immeasurable treason and hypocrisy possible? I could not explain +nor quite believe in the shapeless suspicion that with +these light and bitter words of the old housekeeper had stolen +so horribly into my mind.</p> + +<p>After Mrs. Rusk was gone I awoke from my dismal abstraction +with something like a moan and a shudder, with a dreadful +sense of danger.</p> + +<p>'Oh! Mary Quince,' I cried, 'do you think she really knew?'</p> + +<p>'<i>Who</i>, Miss Maud?'</p> + +<p>'Do you think Madame knew of those dreadful people? Oh, +no—say you don't—you don't believe it—tell me she did not. +I'm distracted, Mary Quince, I'm frightened out of my life.'</p> + +<p>'There now, Miss Maud, dear—there now, don't take on so—why +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>[pg 91]</span> +should she?—no sich a thing. Mrs. Rusk, law bless you, +she's no more meaning in what she says than the child unborn.'</p> + +<p>But I was really frightened. I was in a horrible state of +uncertainty as to Madame de la Rougierre's complicity with the +party who had beset us at the warren, and afterwards so +murderously beat our poor gamekeeper. How was I ever to get rid of +that horrible woman? How long was she to enjoy her continual +opportunities of affrighting and injuring me?</p> + +<p>'She hates me—she hates me, Mary Quince; and she will +never stop until she has done me some dreadful injury. Oh! +will no one relieve me—will no one take her away? Oh, papa, +papa, papa! you will be sorry when it is too late.'</p> + +<p>I was crying and wringing my hands, and turning from side +to side, at my wits' ends, and honest Mary Quince in vain endevoured +to quiet and comfort me.</p> + +<a name="chap18"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XVIII</h3> + +<h2><i>A MIDNIGHT VISITOR</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The frightful warnings of Lady Knollys haunted me too. Was +there no escape from the dreadful companion whom fate had +assigned me? I made up my mind again and again to speak +to my father and urge her removal. In other things he indulged +me; here, however, he met me drily and sternly, and it was +plain that he fancied I was under my cousin Monica's influence, +and also that he had secret reasons for persisting in an opposite +course. Just then I had a gay, odd letter from Lady Knollys, +from some country house in Shropshire. Not a word about +Captain Oakley. My eye skimmed its pages in search of that +charmed name. With a peevish feeling I tossed the sheet upon +the table. Inwardly I thought how ill-natured and unwomanly +it was.</p> + +<p>After a time, however, I read it, and found the letter very +good-natured. She had received a note from papa. He had 'had + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100" id="page100"></a>[pg 92]</span> + +the impudence to forgive <i>her</i> for <i>his</i> impertinence.' +But for my +sake she meant, notwithstanding this aggravation, really to pardon +him; and whenever she had a disengaged week, to accept +his invitation to Knowl, from whence she was resolved to whisk +me off to London, where, though I was too young to be presented +at Court and come out, I might yet—besides having the best +masters and a good excuse for getting rid of Medusa—see a great +deal that would amuse and surprise me.</p> + +<p>'Great news, I suppose, from Lady Knollys?' said Madame, +who always knew who in the house received letters by the post, +and by an intuition from whom they came.</p> + +<p>'Two letters—you and your papa. She is quite well, I hope?'</p> + +<p>'Quite well, thank you, Madame.'</p> + +<p>Some fishing questions, dropped from time to time, fared no +better. And as usual, when she was foiled even in a trifle, she +became sullen and malignant.</p> + +<p>That night, when my father and I were alone, he suddenly +closed the book he had been reading, and said—</p> + +<p>'I heard from Monica Knollys to-day. I always liked poor +Monnie; and though she's no witch, and very wrong-headed +at times, yet now and then she does say a thing that's worth +weighing. Did she ever talk to you of a time, Maud, when you +are to be your own mistress?'</p> + +<p>'No,' I answered, a little puzzled, and looking straight in his +rugged, kindly face.</p> + +<p>'Well, I thought she might—she's a rattle, you know—always +<i>was</i> a rattle, and that sort of people say whatever comes uppermost. +But that's a subject for me, and more than once, Maud, +it has puzzled me.'</p> + +<p>He sighed.</p> + +<p>'Come with me to the study, little Maud.'</p> + +<p>So, he carrying a candle, we crossed the lobby, and marched +together through the passage, which at night always seemed a +little awesome, darkly wainscoted, uncheered by the cross-light +from the hall, which was lost at the turn, leading us away from +the frequented parts of the house to that misshapen and lonely +room about which the traditions of the nursery and the servants' +hall had had so many fearful stories to recount.</p> + +<p>I think my father had intended making some disclosure to me + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page101" id="page101"></a>[pg 93]</span> + +on reaching this room. If so, he changed his mind, or at least +postponed his intention.</p> + +<p>He had paused before the cabinet, respecting the key of which +he had given me so strict a charge, and I think he was going to +explain himself more fully than he had done. But he went on, +instead, to the table where his desk, always jealously locked, was +placed, and having lighted the candles which stood by it, he +glanced at me, and said—</p> + +<p>'You must wait a little, Maud; I shall have something to say +to you. Take this candle and amuse yourself with a book meanwhile.'</p> + +<p>I was accustomed to obey in silence. I chose a volume of engravings, +and ensconced myself in a favourite nook in which +I had often passed a half-hour similarly. This was a deep recess +by the fireplace, fenced on the other side by a great old escritoir. +Into this I drew a stool, and, with candle and book, I placed +myself snugly in the narrow chamber. Every now and then I +raised my eyes and saw my father either writing or ruminating, +as it seemed to me, very anxiously at his desk.</p> + +<p>Time wore on—a longer time than he had intended, and still +he continued absorbed at his desk. Gradually I grew sleepy, +and as I nodded, the book and room faded away, and pleasant +little dreams began to gather round me, and so I went off into +a deep slumber.</p> + +<p>It must have lasted long, for when I wakened my candle had +burnt out; my father, having quite forgotten me, was gone, +and the room was dark and deserted. I felt cold and a little stiff, +and for some seconds did not know where I was.</p> + +<p>I had been wakened, I suppose, by a sound which I now distinctly +heard, to my great terror, approaching. There was a +rustling; there was a breathing. I heard a creaking upon the +plank that always creaked when walked upon in the passage. I +held my breath and listened, and coiled myself up in the +innermost recess of my little chamber.</p> + +<p>Sudden and sharp, a light shone in from the nearly-closed +study door. It shone angularly on the ceiling like a letter L reversed. +There was a pause. Then some one knocked softly at +the door, which after another pause was slowly pushed open. I +expected, I think, to see the dreaded figure of the linkman. I +was scarcely less frightened to see that of Madame de la Rougierre. + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102" id="page102"></a>[pg 94]</span> + +She was dressed in a sort of grey silk, which she called +her Chinese silk—precisely as she had been in the daytime. In +fact, I do not think she had undressed. She had no shoes on. +Otherwise her toilet was deficient in nothing. Her wide mouth +was grimly closed, and she stood scowling into the room with +a searching and pallid scrutiny, the candle held high above her +head at the full stretch of her arm.</p> + +<p>Placed as I was in a deep recess, and in a seat hardly raised +above the level of the floor, I escaped her, although it seemed to +me for some seconds, as I gazed on this spectre, that our eyes +actually met.</p> + +<p>I sat without breathing or winking, staring upon the formidable +image which with upstretched arm, and the sharp lights +and hard shadows thrown upon her corrugated features, looked +like a sorceress watching for the effect of a spell.</p> + +<p>She was plainly listening intensely. Unconsciously she had +drawn her lower lip altogether between her teeth, and I well +remember what a deathlike and idiotic look the contortion +gave her. My terror lest she should discover me amounted to +positive agony. She rolled her eyes stealthily from corner to +corner of the room, and listened with her neck awry at the +door.</p> + +<p>Then to my father's desk she went. To my great relief, her +back was towards me. She stooped over it, with the candle close +by; I saw her try a key—it could be nothing else—and I heard +her blow through the wards to clear them.</p> + +<p>Then, again, she listened at the door, candle in hand, and +then with long tiptoe steps came back, and papa's desk in +another moment was open, and Madame cautiously turning over +the papers it contained.</p> + +<p>Twice or thrice she paused, glided to the door, and listened +again intently with her head near the ground, and then returned +and continued her search, peeping into papers one after another, +tolerably methodically, and reading some quite through.</p> + +<p>While this felonious business was going on, I was freezing with +fear lest she should accidentally look round and her eyes light +on me; for I could not say what she might not do rather than +have her crime discovered.</p> + +<p>Sometimes she would read a paper twice over; sometimes a +whisper no louder than the ticking of a watch, sometimes a brief + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103" id="page103"></a>[pg 95]</span> + +chuckle under her breath, bespoke the interest with which here +and there a letter or a memorandum was read.</p> + +<p>For about half an hour, I think, this went on; but at the time +it seemed to me all but interminable. On a sudden she raised her +head and listened for a moment, replaced the papers deftly, +closed the desk without noise, except for the tiny click of the +lock, extinguished the candle, and rustled stealthily out of the +room, leaving in the darkness the malign and hag-like face on +which the candle had just shone still floating filmy in the dark.</p> + +<p>Why did I remain silent and motionless while such an outrage +was being committed? If, instead of being a very nervous girl, +preoccupied with an undefinable terror of that wicked woman, I +had possessed courage and presence of mind, I dare say I might +have given an alarm, and escaped from the room without the +slightest risk. But so it was; I could no more stir than the bird +who, cowering under its ivy, sees the white owl sailing back and +forward under its predatory cruise.</p> + +<p>Not only during her presence, but for more than an hour after, +I remained cowering in my hiding-place, and afraid to stir, +lest she might either be lurking in the neighborhood, or return +and surprise me.</p> + +<p>You will not be astonished, that after a night so passed I was +ill and feverish in the morning. To my horror, Madame de la +Rougierre came to visit me at my bedside. Not a trace of guilty +consciousness of what had passed during the night was legible +in her face. She had no sign of late watching, and her toilet was +exemplary.</p> + +<p>As she sat smiling by me, full of anxious and affectionate enquiry, +and smoothed the coverlet with her great felonious hand, +I could quite comprehend the dreadful feeling with which the +deceived husband in the 'Arabian Nights' met his ghoul wife, +after his nocturnal discovery.</p> + +<p>Ill as I was, I got up and found my father in that room which +adjoined his bedchamber. He perceived, I am sure, by my looks, +that something unusual had happened. I shut the door, and came +close beside his chair.</p> + +<p>'Oh, papa, I have such a thing to tell you!' I forgot to call +him 'Sir.' 'A secret; and you won't say who told you? Will you +come down to the study?'</p> + +<p>He looked hard at me, got up, and kissing my forehead, said—'Don't + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page104" id="page104"></a>[pg 96]</span> + +be frightened, Maud; I venture to say it is a mare's nest; +at all events, my child, we will take care that no danger reaches +you; come, child.'</p> + +<p>And by the hand he led me to the study. When the door was +shut, and we had reached the far end of the room next the window, +I said, but in a low tone, and holding his arm fast—</p> + +<p>'Oh, sir, you don't know what a dreadful person we have +living with us—Madame de la Rougierre, I mean. Don't let her +in if she comes; she would guess what I am telling you, and +one way or another I am sure she would kill me.'</p> + +<p>'Tut, tut, child. You <i>must</i> know that's nonsense,' he said, +looking pale and stern.</p> + +<p>'Oh no, papa. I am horribly frightened, and Lady Knollys +thinks so too.'</p> + +<p>'Ha! I dare say; one fool makes many. We all know what +Monica thinks.'</p> + +<p>'But I <i>saw</i> it, papa. She stole your key last night, and opened +your desk, and read all your papers.'</p> + +<p>'Stole my key!' said my father, staring at me perplexed, but +at the same instant producing it. 'Stole it! Why here it is!'</p> + +<p>'She unlocked your desk; she read your papers for ever so +long. Open it now, and see whether they have not been stirred.'</p> + +<p>He looked at me this time in silence, with a puzzled air; but +he did unlock the desk, and lifted the papers curiously and suspiciously. +As he did so he uttered a few of those inarticulate interjections +which are made with closed lips, and not always +intelligible; but he made no remark.</p> + +<p>Then he placed me on a chair beside him, and sitting down +himself, told me to recollect myself, and tell him distinctly all I +had seen. This accordingly I did, he listening with deep attention.</p> + +<p>'Did she remove any paper?' asked my father, at the same +time making a little search, I suppose, for that which he fancied +might have been stolen.</p> + +<p>'No; I did not see her take anything.'</p> + +<p>'Well, you are a good girl, Maud. Act discreetly. Say nothing +to anyone—not even to your cousin Monica.'</p> + +<p>Directions which, coming from another person would have +had no great weight, were spoken by my father with an earnest +look and a weight of emphasis that made them irresistibly impressive, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105" id="page105"></a>[pg 97]</span> + +and I went away with the seal of silence upon my lips.</p> + +<p>'Sit down, Maud, <i>there</i>. You have not been very happy with +Madame de la Rougierre. It is time you were relieved. This +occurrence decides it.'</p> + +<p>He rang the bell.</p> + +<p>'Tell Madame de la Rougierre that I request the honour of +seeing her for a few minutes here.'</p> + +<p>My father's communications to her were always equally ceremonious. +In a few minutes there was a knock at the door, and +the same figure, smiling, courtesying, that had scared me on the +threshold last night, like the spirit of evil, presented itself.</p> + +<p>My father rose, and Madame having at his request taken a +chair opposite, looking, as usual in his presence, all amiability, +he proceeded at once to the point.</p> + +<p>'Madame de la Rougierre, I have to request you that you will +give me the key now in your possession, which unlocks this desk +of mine.'</p> + +<p>With which termination he tapped his gold pencil-case suddenly +on it.</p> + +<p>Madame, who had expected something very different, became +instantly so pale, with a dull purplish hue upon her forehead, +that, especially when she had twice essayed with her white lips, +in vain, to answer, I expected to see her fall in a fit.</p> + +<p>She was not looking in his face; her eyes were fixed lower, +and her mouth and cheek sucked in, with a strange distortion +at one side.</p> + +<p>She stood up suddenly, and staring straight in his face, she +succeeded in saying, after twice clearing her throat—</p> + +<p>'I cannot comprehend, Monsieur Ruthyn, unless you intend +to insult me.'</p> + +<p>'It won't do, Madame; I must have that false key. I give you +the opportunity of surrendering it quietly here and now.'</p> + +<p>'But who dares to say I possess such thing?' demanded +Madame, who, having rallied from her momentary paralysis, +was now fierce and voluble as I had often seen her before.</p> + +<p>'You know, Madame, that you can rely on what I say, and I +tell you that you were seen last night visiting this room, and +with a key in your possession, opening this desk, and reading +my letters and papers contained in it. Unless you forthwith give +me that key, and any other false keys in your possession—in + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106" id="page106"></a>[pg 98]</span> + +which case I shall rest content with dismissing you summarily—I +will take a different course. You know I am a magistrate;—and +I shall have you, your boxes, and places up-stairs, searched +forthwith, and I will prosecute you criminally. The thing is +clear; you aggravate by denying; you must give me that key, +if you please, instantly, otherwise I ring this bell, and you shall +see that I mean what I say.'</p> + +<p>There was a little pause. He rose and extended his hand +towards the bell-rope. Madame glided round the table, extended +her hand to arrest his.</p> + +<p>'I will do everything, Monsieur Ruthyn—whatever you wish.'</p> + +<p>And with these words Madame de la Rougierre broke down +altogether. She sobbed, she wept, she gabbled piteously, all +manner of incomprehensible roulades of lamentation and entreaty; +coyly, penitently, in a most interesting agitation, she +produced the very key from her breast, with a string tied to it. +My father was little moved by this piteous tempest. He coolly +took the key and tried it in the desk, which it locked and unlocked +quite freely, though the wards were complicated. He +shook his head and looked her in the face.</p> + +<p>'Pray, who made this key? It is a new one, and made expressly +to pick this lock.'</p> + +<p>But Madame was not going to tell any more than she had +expressly bargained for; so she only fell once more into her +old paroxysm of sorrow, self-reproach, extenuation, and entreaty.</p> + +<p>'Well,' said my father,' I promised that on surrendering the +key you should go. It is enough. I keep my word. You shall +have an hour and a half to prepare in. You must then be ready +to depart. I will send your money to you by Mrs. Rusk; and if +you look for another situation, you had better not refer to me. +Now be so good as to leave me.'</p> + +<p>Madame seemed to be in a strange perplexity. She bridled up, +dried her eyes fiercely, and dropped a great courtesy, and then +sailed away towards the door. Before reaching it she stopped on +the way, turning half round, with a peaked, pallid glance at my +father, and she bit her lip viciously as she eyed him. At the door +the same repulsive pantomime was repeated, as she stood for a +moment with her hand upon the handle. But she changed her +bearing again with a sniff, and with a look of scorn, almost heightened +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107" id="page107"></a>[pg 99]</span> +to a sneer, she made another very low courtesy and a disdainful +toss of her head, and so disappeared, shutting the door +rather sharply behind her.</p> + +<a name="chap19"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XIX</h3> + +<h2><i>AU REVOIR</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk was fond of assuring me that Madame 'did not like +a bone in my skin.' Instinctively I knew that she bore me no +good-will, although I really believe it was her wish to make me +think quite the reverse. At all events I had no desire to see +Madame again before her departure, especially as she had thrown +upon me one momentary glance in the study, which seemed to +me charged with very peculiar feelings.</p> + +<p>You may be very sure, therefore, that I had no desire for a +formal leave-taking at her departure. I took my hat and cloak, +therefore, and stole out quietly.</p> + +<p>My ramble was a sequestered one, and well screened, even at +this late season, with foliage; the pathway devious among the +stems of old trees, and its flooring interlaced and groined with +their knotted roots. Though near the house, it was a sylvan +solitude; a little brook ran darkling and glimmering through it, +wild strawberries and other woodland plants strewed the ground, +and the sweet notes and flutter of small birds made the shadow +of the boughs cheery.</p> + +<p>I had been fully an hour in this picturesque solitude when I +heard in the distance the ring of carriage-wheels, announcing +to me that Madame de la Rougierre had fairly set out upon her +travels. I thanked heaven; I could have danced and sung with +delight; I heaved a great sigh and looked up through the +branches to the clear blue sky.</p> + +<p>But things are oddly timed. Just at this moment I heard +Madame's voice close at my ear, and her large bony hand was + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108" id="page108"></a>[pg 100]</span> + +laid on my shoulder. We were instantly face to face—I recoiling, +and for a moment speechless with fright.</p> + +<p>In very early youth we do not appreciate the restraints which +act upon malignity, or know how effectually fear protects us +where conscience is wanting. Quite alone, in this solitary spot, +detected and overtaken with an awful instinct by my enemy, +what might not be about to happen to me at that moment?</p> + +<p>'Frightened as usual, Maud,' she said quietly, and eyeing me +with a sinister smile, 'and with cause you think, no doubt. Wat +'av you done to injure poor Madame? Well, I think I know, +little girl, and have quite discover the cleverness of my sweet +little Maud. Eh—is not so? Petite carogne—ah, ha, ha!'</p> + +<p>I was too much confounded to answer.</p> + +<p>'You see, my dear cheaile,' she said, shaking her uplifted +finger with a hideous archness at me, 'you could not hide what +you 'av done from poor Madame. You cannot look so innocent +but I can see your pretty little villany quite plain—you dear little +diablesse.</p> + +<p>'Wat I 'av done I 'av no reproach of myself for it. If I could +explain, your papa would say I 'av done right, and you should +thank me on your knees; but I cannot explain yet.'</p> + +<p>She was speaking, as it were, in little paragraphs, with a momentary +pause between each, to allow its meaning to impress +itself.</p> + +<p>'If I were to choose to explain, your papa he would implore +me to remain. But no—I would not—notwithstanding your so +cheerful house, your charming servants, your papa's amusing +society, and your affectionate and sincere heart, my sweet little +maraude.</p> + +<p>'I am to go to London first, where I 'av, oh, so good friends! +next I will go abroad for some time; but be sure, my sweetest +Maud, wherever I may 'appen to be, I will remember you—ah, +ha! Yes; <i>most certainly</i>, I will remember you.</p> + +<p>'And although I shall not be always near, yet I shall know +everything about my charming little Maud; you will not know +how, but I shall indeed, <i>everything</i>. And be sure, my dearest +cheaile, I will some time be able to give you the sensible proofs +of my gratitude and affection—you understand.</p> + +<p>'The carriage is waiting at the yew-tree stile, and I must +go on. You did not expect to see me—here; I will appear, perhaps, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109" id="page109"></a>[pg 101]</span> + +as suddenly another time. It is great pleasure to us both—this +opportunity to make our adieux. Farewell! my dearest little +Maud. I will never cease to think of you, and of some way to +recompense the kindness you 'av shown for poor Madame.'</p> + +<p>My hand hung by my side, and she took, not it, but my +thumb, and shook it, folded in her broad palm, and looking on +me as she held it, as if meditating mischief. Then suddenly she +said—</p> + +<p>'You will always remember Madame, I <i>think</i>, and I will remind +you of me beside; and for the present farewell, and I hope +you may be as 'appy as you deserve.'</p> + +<p>The large sinister face looked on me for a second with its latent +sneer, and then, with a sharp nod and a spasmodic shake of my +imprisoned thumb, she turned, and holding her dress together, +and showing her great bony ankles, she strode rapidly away over +the gnarled roots into the perspective of the trees, and I did not +awake, as it were, until she had quite disappeared in the distance.</p> + +<p>Events of this kind made no difference with my father; but +every other face in Knowl was gladdened by the removal. My +energies had returned, my spirits were come again. The sunlight +was happy, the flowers innocent, the songs and flutter of the +birds once more gay, and all nature delightful and rejoicing.</p> + +<p>After the first elation of relief, now and then a filmy shadow +of Madame de la Rougierre would glide across the sunlight, and +the remembrance of her menace return with an unexpected pang +of fear.</p> + +<p>'Well, if <i>there</i> isn't impittens!' cried Mrs. Rusk. 'But never +you trouble your head about it, Miss. Them sort's all alike—you +never saw a rogue yet that was found out and didn't +threaten the honest folk as he was leaving behind with all sorts; +there was Martin the gamekeeper, and Jervis the footman, I +mind well how hard they swore all they would not do when they +was a-going, and who ever heard of them since? They always +threatens that way—them sort always does, and none ever the +worse—not but she would if she could, mind ye, but there it is; +she can't do nothing but bite her nails and cuss us—not she—ha, +ha, ha!'</p> + +<p>So I was comforted. But Madame's evil smile, nevertheless, +from time to time, would sail across my vision with a silent + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page110" id="page110"></a>[pg 102]</span> + +menace, and my spirits sank, and a Fate, draped in black, whose +face I could not see, took me by the hand, and led me away, in +the spirit, silently, on an awful exploration from which I would +rouse myself with a start, and Madame was gone for a while.</p> + +<p>She had, however, judged her little parting well. She contrived +to leave her glamour over me, and in my dreams she +troubled me.</p> + +<p>I was, however, indescribably relieved. I wrote in high spirits +to Cousin Monica; and wondered what plans my father might +have formed about me, and whether we were to stay at home, or +go to London, or go abroad. Of the last—the pleasantest arrangement, +in some respects—I had nevertheless an occult horror. A +secret conviction haunted me that were we to go abroad, we +should there meet Madame, which to me was like meeting my +evil genius.</p> + +<p>I have said more than once that my father was an odd man; +and the reader will, by this time, have seen that there was much +about him not easily understood. I often wonder whether, if he +had been franker, I should have found him less odd than I supposed, +or more odd still. Things that moved me profoundly did +not apparently affect him at all. The departure of Madame, +under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my +childish mind an event of the vastest importance. No one was +indifferent to the occurrence in the house but its master. He +never alluded again to Madame de la Rougierre. But whether +connected with her exposure and dismissal, I could not say, +there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work +in my father's mind.</p> + +<p>'I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am +anxious. I have not been so troubled for years. Why has not +Monica Knollys a little more sense?'</p> + +<p>This oracular sentence he spoke, having stopped me in the +hall; and then saying, 'We shall see,' he left me as abruptly as +he appeared.</p> + +<p>Did he apprehend any danger to me from the vindictiveness +of Madame?</p> + +<p>A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw +him on the terrace steps. He beckoned to me, and came to meet +me as I approached.</p> + +<p>'You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111" id="page111"></a>[pg 103]</span> + +have written to Monica: in a matter of detail she is competent +to advise; perhaps she will come here for a short visit.'</p> + +<p>I was very glad to hear this.</p> + +<p>'<i>You</i> are more interested than for my time <i>I</i> can be, in vindicating +his character.'</p> + +<p>'Whose character, sir?' I ventured to enquire during the +pause that followed.</p> + +<p>One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of +solitude and silence was this of assuming that the context of his +thoughts was legible to others, forgetting that they had not been +spoken.</p> + +<p>'Whose?—your uncle Silas's. In the course of nature he must +survive me. He will then represent the family name. Would +you make some sacrifice to clear that name, Maud?'</p> + +<p>I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fancy +lighting up the rugged features of a pale old Rembrandt.</p> + +<p>'I can tell you, Maud; if my life could have done it, it should +not have been undone—<i>ubi lapsus, quid feci</i>. But I had almost +made up my mind to change my plan, and leave all to time—<i>edax +rerum</i>—to illuminate or to <i>consume</i>. But I think little +Maud would like to contribute to the restitution of her family +name. It may cost you something—are you willing to buy it at +a sacrifice? Is there—I don't speak of fortune, that is not involved—but +is there any other honourable sacrifice you would +shrink from to dispel the disgrace under which our most ancient +and honourable name must otherwise continue to languish?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, none—none indeed, sir—I am delighted!'</p> + +<p>Again I saw the Rembrandt smile.</p> + +<p>'Well, Maud, I am sure there is <i>no</i> risk; but you are to suppose +there is. Are you still willing to accept it?'</p> + +<p>Again I assented.</p> + +<p>'You are worthy of your blood, Maud Ruthyn. It will come +soon, and it won't last long. But you must not let people like +Monica Knollys frighten you.'</p> + +<p>I was lost in wonder.</p> + +<p>'If you allow them to possess you with their follies, you had +better recede in time—they may make the ordeal as terrible as +hell itself. You have zeal—have you nerve?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page112" id="page112"></a>[pg 104]</span> + +<p>I thought in such a cause I had nerve for anything.</p> + +<p>'Well, Maud, in the course of a few months—and it may be +sooner—there must be a change. I have had a letter from London +this morning that assures me of that. I must then leave you for +a time; in my absence be faithful to the duties that will arise. +To whom much is committed, of him will much be required. +You shall promise me not to mention this conversation to +Monica Knollys. If you are a talking girl, and cannot trust yourself, +say so, and we will not ask her to come. Also, don't invite +her to talk about your uncle Silas—I have reasons. Do you quite +understand my conditions?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir.'</p> + +<p>'Your uncle Silas,' he said, speaking suddenly in loud and +fierce tones that sounded from so old a man almost terrible, +'lies under an intolerable slander. I don't correspond with him; +I don't sympathise with him; I never quite did. He has grown +religious, and that's well; but there are things in which even +religion should not bring a man to acquiesce; and from what I +can learn, he, the person primarily affected—the cause, though +the innocent cause—of this great calamity—bears it with an easy +apathy which is mistaken, and liable easily to be mistaken, and +such as no Ruthyn, under the circumstances, ought to exhibit. +I told him what he ought to do, and offered to open my purse +for the purpose; but he would not, or <i>did</i> not; indeed, he <i>never</i> +took my advice; he followed his own, and a foul and dismal shoal he +has drifted on. It is not for his sake—why should I?-that +I have longed and laboured to remove the disgraceful slur +under which his ill-fortune has thrown us. He troubles himself +little about it, I believe—he's meek, meeker than I. He cares less +about his children than I about you, Maud; he is selfishly sunk +in futurity—a feeble visionary. I am not so. I believe it to be a +duty to take care of others beside myself. The character and +influence of an ancient family is a peculiar heritage—sacred but +destructible; and woe to him who either destroys or suffers it to +perish!'</p> + +<p>This was the longest speech I ever heard my father speak before +or after. He abruptly resumed—</p> + +<p>'Yes, we will, Maud—you and I—we'll leave one proof on +record, which, fairly read, will go far to convince the world.'</p> + +<p>He looked round, but we were alone. The garden was nearly + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113" id="page113"></a>[pg 105]</span> + +always solitary, and few visitors ever approached the house +from that side.</p> + +<p>'I have talked too long, I believe; we are children to the last. +Leave me, Maud. I think I know you better than I did, and I +am pleased with you. Go, child—I'll sit here.'</p> + +<p>If he had acquired new ideas of me, so had I of him from that +interview. I had no idea till then how much passion still burned +in that aged frame, nor how full of energy and fire that face, +generally so stern and ashen, could appear. As I left him seated +on the rustic chair, by the steps, the traces of that storm were +still discernible on his features. His gathered brows, glowing +eyes, and strangely hectic face, and the grim compression of +his mouth, still showed the agitation which, somehow, in grey +old age, shocks and alarms the young.</p> + +<a name="chap20"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XX</h3> + +<h2><i>AUSTIN RUTHYN SETS OUT +ON HIS JOURNEY</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The Rev. William Fairfield, Doctor Clay's somewhat bald curate, +a mild, thin man, with a high and thin nose, who was preparing +me for confirmation, came next day; and when our catechetical +conference was ended, and before lunch was announced, my +father sent for him to the study, where he remained until the +bell rang out its summons.</p> + +<p>'We have had some interesting—I may say <i>very</i> +interesting—conversation, +your papa and I, Miss Ruthyn,' said my reverend +<i>vis-à-vis</i>, so soon as nature was refreshed, smiling and shining, as +he leaned back in his chair, his hand upon the table, and his +finger curled gently upon the stem of his wine-glass. 'It never +was your privilege, I believe, to see your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, +of Bartram-Haugh?'</p> + +<p>'No—never; he leads so retired—so <i>very</i> retired a life.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, no,—of course, no; but I was going to remark a likeness—I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114" id="page114"></a>[pg 106]</span> + +mean, of course, a <i>family</i> likeness—only <i>that</i> sort of +thing—you understand—between him and the profile of Lady +Margaret in the drawing-room—is not it Lady Margaret?—which +you were so good as to show me on Wednesday last. There +certainly <i>is</i> a likeness. I <i>think</i> you would agree with me, if you +had the pleasure of seeing your uncle.'</p> + +<p>'You know him, then? I have never seen him.'</p> + +<p>'Oh dear, yes—I am happy to say, I know him very well. I +have that privilege. I was for three years curate of Feltram, and +I had the honour of being a pretty constant visitor at Bartram-Haugh +during that, I may say, protracted period; and I think +it really never has been my privilege and happiness, I may say, +to enjoy the acquaintance and society of so very experienced a +Christian, as my admirable friend, I may call him, Mr. Ruthyn, +of Bartram-Haugh. I look upon him, I do assure you, quite in +the light of a saint; not, of course, in the Popish sense, but in +the very highest, you will understand me, which <i>our</i> Church +allows,—a man built up in faith—full of faith—faith and +grace—altogether +exemplary; and I often ventured to regret, Miss +Ruthyn, that Providence in its mysterious dispensations should +have placed him so far apart from his brother, your respected +father. His influence and opportunities would, no doubt, we may +venture to hope, at least have been blessed; and, perhaps, we—my +valued rector and I—might possibly have seen more of him at +church, than, I deeply regret, we <i>have</i> done.' He shook his head +a little, as he smiled with a sad complacency on me through his +blue steel spectacles, and then sipped a little meditative sherry.</p> + +<p>'And you saw a good deal of my uncle?'</p> + +<p>'Well, a <i>good</i> deal, Miss Ruthyn—I may say a <i>good</i> +deal—principally at his own house. His health is wretched—miserable +health—a sadly afflicted man he has been, as, no doubt, you are +aware. But afflictions, my dear Miss Ruthyn, as you remember +Doctor Clay so well remarked on Sunday last, though birds of +ill omen, yet spiritually resemble the ravens who supplied the +prophet; and when they visit the faithful, come charged with +nourishment for the soul.</p> + +<p>'He is a good deal embarrassed pecuniarily, I should say,' +continued the curate, who was rather a good man than a very +well-bred one. 'He found a difficulty—in fact it was not in his +power—to subscribe generally to our little funds, and—and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page115" id="page115"></a>[pg 107]</span> + +objects, and I used to say to him, and I really felt it, that it was +more gratifying, such were his feeling and his power of expression, +to be refused by him than assisted by others.'</p> + +<p>'Did papa wish you to speak to me about my uncle?' I enquired, +as a sudden thought struck me; and then I felt half +ashamed of my question.</p> + +<p>He looked surprised.</p> + +<p>'No, Miss Ruthyn, certainly not. Oh dear, no. It was merely +a conversation between Mr. Ruthyn and me. He never suggested +my opening that, or indeed any other point in my interview with +you, Miss Ruthyn—not the least.'</p> + +<p>'I was not aware before that Uncle Silas was so religious.'</p> + +<p>He smiled tranquilly, not quite up to the ceiling, but gently +upward, and shook his head in pity for my previous ignorance, +as he lowered his eyes—</p> + +<p>'I don't say that there may not be some little matters in a +few points of doctrine which we could, perhaps, wish otherwise. +But these, you know, are speculative, and in all essentials he +is Church—not in the perverted modern sense; far from it—unexceptionably +Church, strictly so. Would there were more +among us of the same mind that is in him! Ay, Miss Ruthyn, +even in the highest places of the Church herself.'</p> + +<p>The Rev. William Fairfield, while fighting against the Dissenters +with his right hand, was, with his left, hotly engaged +with the Tractarians. A good man I am sure he was, and I dare +say sound in doctrine, though naturally, I think, not very wise. +This conversation with him gave me new ideas about my uncle +Silas. It quite agreed with what my father had said. These +principles and his increasing years would necessarily quiet the +turbulence of his resistance to injustice, and teach him to +acquiesce in his fate.</p> + +<p>You would have fancied that one so young as I, born to +wealth so vast, and living a life of such entire seclusion, would +have been exempt from care. But you have seen how troubled +my life was with fear and anxiety during the residence of Madame +de la Rougierre, and now there rested upon my mind a +vague and awful anticipation of the trial which my father had +announced, without defining it.</p> + +<p>An 'ordeal' he called it, requiring not only zeal but nerve, +which might possibly, were my courage to fail, become frightful, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116" id="page116"></a>[pg 108]</span> + +and even intolerable. What, and of what nature, could it be? +Not designed to vindicate the fair fame of the meek and submissive +old man—who, it seemed, had ceased to care for his +bygone wrongs, and was looking to futurity—but the reputation +of our ancient family.</p> + +<p>Sometimes I repented my temerity in having undertaken it. I +distrusted my courage. Had I not better retreat, while it was yet +time? But there was shame and even difficulty in the thought. +How should I appear before my father? Was it not important—had +I not deliberately undertaken it—and was I not bound in +conscience? Perhaps he had already taken steps in the matter +which committed <i>him</i>. Besides, was I sure that, even were I free +again, I would not once more devote myself to the trial, be +it what it might? You perceive I had more spirit than courage. +I think I had the mental attributes of courage; but then I was +but a hysterical girl, and in so far neither more nor less than +a coward.</p> + +<p>No wonder I distrusted myself; no wonder also my will stood +out against my timidity. It was a struggle, then; a proud, wild +resolve against constitutional cowardice.</p> + +<p>Those who have ever had cast upon them more than their +strength seemed framed to bear—the weak, the aspiring, the adventurous +and self-sacrificing in will, and the faltering in nerve—will +understand the kind of agony which I sometimes endured.</p> + +<p>But, again, consolation would come, and it seemed to me that +I must be exaggerating my risk in the coming crisis; and certain +at least, if my father believed it attended with real peril, he +would never have wished to see me involved in it. But the silence +under which I was bound was terrifying—double so when +the danger was so shapeless and undivulged.</p> + +<p>I was soon to understand it all—soon, too, to know all about +my father's impending journey, whither, with what visitor, and +why guarded from me with so awful a mystery.</p> + +<p>That day there came a lively and goodnatured letter from +Lady Knollys. She was to arrive at Knowl in two or three days' +time. I thought my father would have been pleased, but he +seemed apathetic and dejected.</p> + +<p>'One does not always feel quite equal to Monica. But for +you—yes, thank God. I wish she could only stay, Maud, for a +month or two; I may be going then, and would be glad—provided + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page117" id="page117"></a>[pg 109]</span> + +she talks about suitable things—very glad, Maud, to leave +her with you for a week or so.'</p> + +<p>There was something, I thought, agitating my father secretly +that day. He had the strange hectic flush I had observed when +he grew excited in our interview in the garden about Uncle +Silas. There was something painful, perhaps even terrible, in +the circumstances of the journey he was about to make, and +from my heart I wished the suspense were over, the annoyance +past, and he returned.</p> + +<p>That night my father bid me good-night early and went up-stairs. +After I had been in bed some little time, I heard his +hand-bell ring. This was not usual. Shortly after I heard his +man, Ridley, talking with Mrs. Rusk in the gallery. I could +not be mistaken in their voices. I knew not why I was startled +and excited, and had raised myself to listen on my elbow. But +they were talking quietly, like persons giving or taking an ordinary +direction, and not in the haste of an unusual emergency.</p> + +<p>Then I heard the man bid Mrs. Rusk good-night and walk +down the gallery to the stairs, so that I concluded he was wanted +no more, and all must therefore be well. So I laid myself down +again, though with a throbbing at my heart, and an ominous +feeling of expectation, listening and fancying footsteps.</p> + +<p>I was going to sleep when I heard the bell ring again; and, +in a few minutes, Mrs. Rusk's energetic step passed along the +gallery; and, listening intently, I heard, or fancied, my father's +voice and hers in dialogue. All this was very unusual, and again +I was, with a beating heart, leaning with my elbow on my +pillow.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk came along the gallery in a minute or so after, and +stopping at my door, began to open it gently. I was startled, and +challenged my visitor with—</p> + +<p>'Who's there?'</p> + +<p>'It's only Rusk, Miss. Dearie me! and are you awake still?'</p> + +<p>'Is papa ill?'</p> + +<p>'Ill! not a bit ill, thank God. Only there's a little black book +as I took for your prayer-book, and brought in here; ay, here it +is, sure enough, and he wants it. And then I must go down to +the study, and look out this one, "C, 15;" but I can't read the +name, noways; and I was afraid to ask him again; if you be so +kind to read it, Miss—I suspeck my eyes is a-going.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118" id="page118"></a>[pg 110]</span> + +<p>I read the name; and Mrs. Rusk was tolerably expert at +finding out books, as she had often been employed in that way +before. So she departed.</p> + +<p>I suppose that this particular volume was hard to find, for +she must have been a long time away, and I had actually fallen +into a doze when I was roused in an instant by a dreadful crash +and a piercing scream from Mrs. Rusk. Scream followed scream, +wilder and more terror-stricken. I shrieked to Mary Quince, +who was sleeping in the room with me:—'Mary, do you hear? +what is it? It is something dreadful.'</p> + +<p>The crash was so tremendous that the solid flooring even of +my room trembled under it, and to me it seemed as if some +heavy man had burst through the top of the window, and shook +the whole house with his descent. I found myself standing at my +own door, crying, 'Help, help! murder! murder!' and Mary +Quince, frightened half out of her wits, by my side.</p> + +<p>I could not think what was going on. It was plainly something +most horrible, for Mrs. Rusk's screams pealed one after the +other unabated, though with a muffled sound, as if the door was +shut upon her; and by this time the bells of my father's room +were ringing madly.</p> + +<p>'They are trying to murder him!' I cried, and I ran along +the gallery to his door, followed by Mary Quince, whose white +face I shall never forget, though her entreaties only sounded like +unmeaning noises in my ears.</p> + +<p>'Here! help, help, help!' I cried, trying to force open the +door.</p> + +<p>'Shove it, shove it, for God's sake! he's across it,' cried Mrs. +Rusk's voice from within; 'drive it in. I can't move him.'</p> + +<p>I strained all I could at the door, but ineffectually. We heard +steps approaching. The men were running to the spot, and +shouting as they did so—</p> + +<p>'Never mind; hold on a bit; here we are; all right;' and the +like.</p> + +<p>We drew back, as they came up. We were in no condition to +be seen. We listened, however, at my open door.</p> + +<p>Then came the straining and bumping at the door. Mrs. +Rusk's voice subsided to a sort of wailing; the men were talking +all together, and I suppose the door opened, for I heard some +of the voices, on a sudden, as if in the room; and then came a + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page119" id="page119"></a>[pg 111]</span> + +strange lull, and talking in very low tones, and not much even +of that.</p> + +<p>'What is it, Mary? what <i>can</i> it be?' I ejaculated, not knowing +what horror to suppose. And now, with a counterpane about +my shoulders, I called loudly and imploringly, in my horror, to +know what had happened.</p> + +<p>But I heard only the subdued and eager talk of men engaged +in some absorbing task, and the dull sounds of some heavy +body being moved.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk came towards us looking half wild, and pale as a +spectre, and putting her thin hands to my shoulders, she said—'Now, +Miss Maud, darling, you must go back again; 'tisn't no +place for you; you'll see all, my darling, time enough—you will. +There now, there, like a dear, do get into your room.'</p> + +<p>What was that dreadful sound? Who had entered my father's +chamber? It was the visitor whom we had so long expected, +with whom he was to make the unknown journey, leaving me +alone. The intruder was Death!</p> + +<a name="chap21"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXI</h3> + +<h2><i>ARRIVALS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>My father was dead—as suddenly as if he had been murdered. +One of those fearful aneurisms that lie close to the heart, showing +no outward sign of giving way in a moment, had been detected +a good time since by Dr. Bryerly. My father knew what +must happen, and that it could not be long deferred. He feared +to tell me that he was soon to die. He hinted it only in the allegory +of his journey, and left in that sad enigma some words of +true consolation that remained with me ever after. Under his +rugged ways was hidden a wonderful tenderness. I could not +believe that he was actually dead. Most people for a minute or +two, in the wild tumult of such a shock, have experienced the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120" id="page120"></a>[pg 112]</span> + +same skepticism. I insisted that the doctor should be instantly +sent for from the village.</p> + +<p>'Well, Miss Maud, dear, I <i>will</i> send to please you, but it is +all to no use. If only you saw him yourself you'd know that. +Mary Quince, run you down and tell Thomas, Miss Maud desires +he'll go down this minute to the village for Dr. Elweys.'</p> + +<p>Every minute of the interval seemed to me like an hour. I +don't know what I said, but I fancied that if he were not already +dead, he would lose his life by the delay. I suppose I was +speaking very wildly, for Mrs. Rusk said—</p> + +<p>'My dear child, you ought to come in and see him; indeed +but you should, Miss Maud. He's quite dead an hour ago. You'd +wonder all the blood that's come from him—you would indeed; +it's soaked through the bed already.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, don't, don't, <i>don't</i>, Mrs. Rusk.'</p> + +<p>'Will you come in and see him, just?</p> + +<p>'Oh, no, no, no, no!'</p> + +<p>'Well, then, my dear, don't of course, if you don't like; +there's no need. Would not you like to lie down, Miss Maud? +Mary Quince, attend to her. I must go into the room for a +minute or two.'</p> + +<p>I was walking up and down the room in distraction. It was a +cool night; but I did not feel it. I could only cry:—'Oh, Mary, +Mary! what shall I do? Oh, Mary Quince! what shall I do?'</p> + +<p>It seemed to me it must be near daylight by the time the +Doctor arrived. I had dressed myself. I dared not go into the +room where my beloved father lay.</p> + +<p>I had gone out of my room to the gallery, where I awaited +Dr. Elweys, when I saw him walking briskly after the servant, +his coat buttoned up to his chin, his hat in his hand, and his +bald head shining. I felt myself grow cold as ice, and colder and +colder, and with a sudden sten my heart seemed to stand still.</p> + +<p>I heard him ask the maid who stood at the door, in that +low, decisive, mysterious tone which doctors cultivate—</p> + +<p>'In <i>here</i>?'</p> + +<p>And then, with a nod, I saw him enter.</p> + +<p>'Would not you like to see the Doctor, Miss Maud?' asked +Mary Quince.</p> + +<p>The question roused me a little.</p> + +<p>'Thank you, Mary; yes, I must see him.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>[pg 113]</span> + +<p>And so, in a few minutes, I did. He was very respectful, very +sad, semi-undertakerlike, in air and countenance, but quite +explicit. I heard that my dear father 'had died palpably from +the rupture of some great vessel near the heart.' The disease +had, no doubt, been 'long established, and is in its nature incurable.' +It is 'consolatory in these cases that in the act of dissolution, +which is instantaneous, there can be no suffering.' These, +and a few more remarks, were all he had to offer; and having +had his fee from Mrs. Rusk, he, with a respectful melancholy, +vanished.</p> + +<p>I returned to my room, and broke into paroxysms of grief, +and after an hour or more grew more tranquil.</p> + +<p>From Mrs. Rusk I learned that he had seemed very well—better +than usual, indeed—that night, and that on her return +from the study with the book he required, he was noting down, +after his wont, some passages which illustrated the text on +which he was employing himself. He took the book, detaining +her in the room, and then mounting on a chair to take down +another book from a shelf, he had fallen, with the dreadful +crash I had heard, dead upon the floor. He fell across the door, +which caused the difficulty in opening it. Mrs. Rusk found she +had not strength to force it open. No wonder she had given way +to terror. I think I should have almost lost my reason.</p> + +<p>Everyone knows the reserved aspect and the taciturn mood +of the house, one of whose rooms is tenanted by that mysterious +guest.</p> + +<p>I do not know how those awful days, and more awful nights, +passed over. The remembrance is repulsive. I hate to think of +them. I was soon draped in the conventional black, with its +heavy folds of crape. Lady Knollys came, and was very kind. +She undertook the direction of all those details which were to +me so inexpressibly dreadful. She wrote letters for me beside, +and was really most kind and useful, and her society supported +me indescribably. She was odd, but her eccentricity was leavened +with strong common sense; and I have often thought since +with admiration and gratitude of the tact with which she managed +my grief.</p> + +<p>There is no dealing with great sorrow as if it were under the +control of our wills. It is a terrible phenomenon, whose laws +we must study, and to whose conditions we must submit, if we + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>[pg 114]</span> + +would mitigate it. Cousin Monica talked a great deal of my +father. This was easy to her, for her early recollections were full +of him.</p> + +<p>One of the terrible dislocations of our habits of mind respecting +the dead is that our earthly future is robbed of them, and we +thrown exclusively upon retrospect. From the long look forward +they are removed, and every plan, imagination, and hope henceforth +a silent and empty perspective. But in the past they are +all they ever were. Now let me advise all who would comfort +people in a new bereavement to talk to them, very freely, all +they can, in this way of the dead. They will engage in it with +interest, they will talk of their own recollections of the dead, +and listen to yours, though they become sometimes pleasant, +sometimes even laughable. I found it so. It robbed the calamity +of something of its supernatural and horrible abruptness; it +prevented that monotony of object which is to the mind what +it is to the eye, and prepared the faculty for those mesmeric +illusions that derange its sense.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica, I am sure, cheered me wonderfully. I grow to +love her more and more, as I think of all her trouble, care, and +kindness.</p> + +<p>I had not forgotten my promise to dear papa about the key, +concerning which he had evinced so great an anxiety. It was +found in the pocket where he had desired me to remember he +always kept it, except when it was placed, while he slept, under +his pillow.</p> + +<p>'And so, my dear, that wicked woman was actually found +picking the lock of your poor papa's desk. I <i>wonder</i> he did not +punish her—you know that is <i>burglary</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Well, Lady Knollys, you know she is gone, and so I care no +more about her—that is, I mean, I need not fear her.'</p> + +<p>'No, my dear, but you must call me Monica—do you mind—I'm +your cousin, and you call me Monica, unless you wish to +vex me. No, of course, you need not be afraid of her. And she's +gone. But I'm an old thing, you know, and not so tender-hearted +as you; and I confess I should have been very glad to hear +that the wicked old witch had been sent to prison and hard +labour—I should. And what do you suppose she was looking +for—what did she want to steal? I think I can guess—what do +<i>you</i> think?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>[pg 115]</span> + +<p>'To read the papers; maybe to take bank-notes—I'm not sure,' +I answered.</p> + +<p>'Well, I think most likely she wanted to get at your poor +papa's <i>will</i>—that's <i>my</i> idea.</p> + +<p>'There is nothing surprising in the supposition, dear,' she +resumed. 'Did not you read the curious trial at York, the other +day? There is nothing so valuable to steal as a will, when a +great deal of property is to be disposed of by it. Why, you would +have given her ever so much money to get it back again. Suppose +you go down, dear—I'll go with you, and open the cabinet +in the study.'</p> + +<p>'I don't think I can, for I promised to give the key to Dr. +Bryerly, and the meaning was that <i>he</i> only should open it.'</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica uttered an inarticulate 'H'm!' of surprise +or disapprobation.</p> + +<p>'Has he been written to?'</p> + +<p>'No, I do not know his address.'</p> + +<p>'Not know his address! come, that is curious,' said Knollys, +a little testily.</p> + +<p>I could not—no one now living in the house could furnish +even a conjecture. There was even a dispute as to which train he +had gone by—north or south—they crossed the station at an interval +of five minutes. If Dr. Bryerly had been an evil spirit, +evoked by a secret incantation, there could not have been more +complete darkness as to the immediate process of his approach.</p> + +<p>'And how long do you mean to wait, my dear? No matter; +at all events you may open the <i>desk</i>; you may find papers to +direct you—you may find Dr. Bryerly's address—you may find, +heaven knows what.'</p> + +<p>So down we went—I assenting—and we opened the desk. How +dreadful the desecration seems—all privacy abrogated—the shocking +compensation for the silence of death!</p> + +<p>Henceforward all is circumstantial evidence—all conjectural—except +the <i>litera scripta</i>, and to this evidence every note-book, +and every scrap of paper and private letter, must contribute—ransacked, +bare in the light of day—what it can.</p> + +<p>At the top of the desk lay two notes sealed, one to Cousin +Monica, the other to me. Mine was a gentle and loving little +farewell—nothing more—which opened afresh the fountains +of my sorrow, and I cried and sobbed over it bitterly and long.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>[pg 116]</span> + +<p>The other was for 'Lady Knollys.' I did not see how she received +it, for I was already absorbed in mine. But in awhile +she came and kissed me in her girlish, goodnatured way. Her +eyes used to fill with tears at sight of my paroxysms of grief. +Then she would begin, 'I remember it was a saying of his,' and +so she would repeat it—something maybe wise, maybe playful, at +all events consolatory—and the circumstances in which she had +heard him say it, and then would follow the recollections suggested +by these; and so I was stolen away half by him, and half +by Cousin Monica, from my despair and lamentation.</p> + +<p>Along with these lay a large envelope, inscribed with the +words 'Directions to be complied with immediately on my +death.' One of which was, 'Let the event be <i>forthwith</i> published +in the <i>county</i> and principal <i>London</i> papers.' This step +had been already taken. We found no record of Dr. Bryerly's +address.</p> + +<p>We made search everywhere, except in the cabinet, which I +would on no account permit to be opened except, according to +his direction, by Dr. Bryerly's hand. But nowhere was a will, +or any document resembling one, to be found. I had now, therefore, +no doubt that his will was placed in the cabinet.</p> + +<p>In the search among my dear father's papers we found two +sheafs of letters, neatly tied up and labelled—these were from +my uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>My cousin Monica looked down upon these papers with a +strange smile; was it satire—was it that indescribable smile +with which a mystery which covers a long reach of years is +sometimes approached?</p> + +<p>These were odd letters. If here and there occurred passages +that were querulous and even abject, there were also long +passages of manly and altogether noble sentiment, and the +strangest rodomontade and maunderings about religion. Here +and there a letter would gradually transform itself into a prayer, +and end with a doxology and no signature; and some of them +expressed such wild and disordered views respecting religion, as +I imagine he can never have disclosed to good Mr. Fairfield, +and which approached more nearly to the Swedenborg visions +than to anything in the Church of England.</p> + +<p>I read these with a solemn interest, but my cousin Monica +was not similarly moved. She read them with the same smile—faint, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>[pg 117]</span> + +serenely contemptuous, I thought—with which she had +first looked down upon them. It was the countenance of a person +who amusedly traces the working of a character that is well +understood.</p> + +<p>'Uncle Silas is very religious?' I said, not quite liking Lady +Knollys' looks.</p> + +<p>'Very,' she said, without raising her eyes or abating her old +bitter smile, as she glanced over a passage in one of his letters.</p> + +<p>'You don't think he <i>is</i>, Cousin Monica?' said I. She raised +her head and looked straight at me.</p> + +<p>'Why do you say that, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'Because you smile incredulously, I think, over his letters.'</p> + +<p>'Do I?' said she; 'I was not thinking—it was quite an accident. +The fact is, Maud, your poor papa quite mistook me. I +had no prejudice respecting him—no theory. I never knew what +to think about him. I do not think Silas a product of nature, +but a child of the Sphinx, and I never could understand him—that's +all.'</p> + +<p>'I always felt so too; but that was because I was left to speculation, +and to glean conjectures as I might from his portrait, or +anywhere. Except what you told me, I never heard more than a +few sentences; poor papa did not like me to ask questions about +him, and I think he ordered the servants to be silent.'</p> + +<p>'And much the same injunction this little note lays upon me—not +quite, but something like it; and I don't know the meaning +of it.'</p> + +<p>And she looked enquiringly at me.</p> + +<p>'You are not to be <i>alarmed</i> about your uncle Silas, because +your being afraid would unfit you for an <i>important service</i> +which you have undertaken for your family, the nature of which +I shall soon understand, and which, although it is quite <i>passive</i>, +would be made very sad if <i>illusory fears</i> were allowed to <i>steal +into your mind</i>.'</p> + +<p>She was looking into the letter in poor papa's handwriting, +which she had found addressed to her in his desk, and emphasised +the words, I suppose, which she quoted from it.</p> + +<p>'Have you any idea, Maud, darling, what this <i>service</i> may +be?' she enquired, with a grave and anxious curiosity in her +countenance.</p> + +<p>'None, Cousin Monica; but I have thought long over my undertaking + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>[pg 118]</span> + +to do it, or submit to it, be it what it may; and I will +keep the promise I voluntarily made, although I know what a +coward I am, and often distrust my courage.'</p> + +<p>'Well, I am not to frighten you.'</p> + +<p>'How could you? Why should I be afraid? <i>Is</i> there anything +frightful to be disclosed? Do tell me—you <i>must</i> tell me.'</p> + +<p>'No, darling, I did not mean <i>that</i>—I don't mean that;—I +could, if I would; I—I don't know exactly what I meant. But +your poor papa knew him better than I—in fact, I did not know +him at all—that is, ever quite understood him—which your poor +papa, I see, had ample opportunities of doing.' And after a +little pause, she added—'So you do not know what you are +expected to do or to undergo.'</p> + +<p>'Oh! Cousin Monica, I know you think he committed that +murder,' I cried, starting up, I don't know why, and I felt that I +grew deadly pale.</p> + +<p>'I don't believe any such thing, you little fool; you must not +say such horrible things, Maud,' she said, rising also, and looking +both pale and angry. 'Shall we go out for a little walk? +Come, lock up these papers, dear, and get your things on; +and if that Dr. Bryerly does not turn up to-morrow, you must +send for the Rector, good Doctor Clay, and let him make search +for the will—there may be directions about many things, you +know; and, my dear Maud, you are to remember that Silas is +<i>my</i> cousin as well as your uncle. Come, dear, put on your hat.'</p> + +<p>So we went out together for a little cloistered walk.</p> + +<a name="chap22"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXII</h3> + +<h2><i>SOMEBODY IN THE ROOM +WITH THE COFFIN</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>When we returned, a 'young' gentleman had arrived. We saw +him in the parlour as we passed the window. It was simply a +glance, but such a one as suffices to make a photograph, which + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>[pg 119]</span> + +we can study afterwards, at our leisure. I remember him at this +moment—a man of six-and-thirty—dressed in a grey travelling +suit, not over-well made; light-haired, fat-faced, and clumsy; +and he looked both dull and cunning, and not at all like a +gentleman.</p> + +<p>Branston met us, announced the arrival, and handed me the +stranger's credentials. My cousin and I stopped in the passage to +read them.</p> + +<p>'<i>That's</i> your uncle Silas's,' said Lady Knollys, touching one +of the two letters with the tip of her finger.</p> + +<p>'Shall we have lunch, Miss?'</p> + +<p>'Certainly.' So Branston departed.</p> + +<p>'Read it with me, Cousin Monica,' I said. And a very curious +letter it was. It spoke as follows:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'How can I thank my beloved niece for remembering her +aged and forlorn kinsman at such a moment of anguish?'</p> + +<p>I had written a note of a few, I dare say, incoherent words +by the next post after my dear father's death.</p> + +<p>'It is, however, in the hour of bereavement that we most +value the ties that are broken, and yearn for the sympathy of +kindred.'</p> + +<p>Here came a little distich of French verse, of which I could +only read <i>ciel</i> and <i>l'amour</i>.</p> + +<p>'Our quiet household here is clouded with a new sorrow. How +inscrutable are the ways of Providence! I—though a few years +younger—how much the more infirm—how shattered in energy +and in mind—how mere a burden—how entirely <i>de trop</i>—am +spared to my sad place in a world where I can be no longer useful, +where I have but one business—prayer, but one hope—the +tomb; and he—apparently so robust—the centre of so much +good—so necessary to you—so necessary, alas! to me—is taken! +He is gone to his rest—for us, what remains but to bow our +heads, and murmur, "His will be done"? I trace these lines +with a trembling hand, while tears dim my old eyes. I did not +think that any earthly event could have moved me so profoundly. +From the world I have long stood aloof. I once led a +life of pleasure—alas! of wickedness—as I now do one of austerity; +but as I never was rich, so my worst enemy will allow I +never was avaricious. My sins, I thank my Maker, have been of + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128" id="page128"></a>[pg 120]</span> + +a more reducible kind, and have succumbed to the discipline +which Heaven has provided. To earth and its interests, as well +as to its pleasures, I have long been dead. For the few remaining +years of my life I ask but quiet—an exemption from the agitations +and distractions of struggle and care, and I trust to the +Giver of all Good for my deliverance—well knowing, at the +same time, that whatever befalls will, under His direction, +prove best. Happy shall I be, my dearest niece, if in your most +interesting and, in some respects, forlorn situation, I can be of +any use to you. My present religious adviser—of whom I ventured +to ask counsel on your behalf—states that I ought to send +some one to represent me at the melancholy ceremony of reading +the will which my beloved and now happy brother has, no doubt, +left behind; and the idea that the experience and professional +knowledge possessed by the gentleman whom I have selected +may possibly be of use to you, my dearest niece, determines me +to place him at your disposal. He is the junior partner in the +firm of Archer and Sleigh, who conduct any little business which +I may have from time to time; may I entreat your hospitality +for him during a brief stay at Knowl? I write, even for a moment, +upon these small matters of business with an effort—a +painful one, but necessary. Alas! my brother! The cup of bitterness +is now full. Few and evil must the remainder of my old +days be. Yet, while they last, I remain always for my beloved +niece, that which all her wealth and splendour cannot purchase—a +loving and faithful kinsman and friend,</p> + +<p class="signature">S<small>ILAS</small> R<small>UTHYN</small>.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'Is not it a kind letter?' I said, while tears stood in my eyes.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' answered Lady Knollys, drily.</p> + +<p>'But don't you think it so, really?'</p> + +<p>'Oh! kind, very kind,' she answered in the same tone, 'and +perhaps a little cunning.'</p> + +<p>'Cunning!—how?'</p> + +<p>'Well, you know I'm a peevish old Tabby, and of course I +scratch now and then, and see in the dark. I dare say Silas is +sorry, but I don't think he is in sackcloth and ashes. He has +reason to be sorry and anxious, and I say I think he is both; +and you know he pities you very much, and also himself a good +deal; and he wants money, and you—his beloved niece—have a + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>[pg 121]</span> + +great deal—and altogether it is an affectionate and prudent letter: +and he has sent his attorney here to make a note of the +will; and you are to give the gentleman his meals and lodging; +and Silas, very thoughtfully, invites you to confide your difficulties +and troubles to <i>his</i> solicitor. It is very kind, but not imprudent.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Cousin Monica, don't you think at such a moment it is +hardly natural that he should form such petty schemes, even +were he capable at other times of practising so low? Is it not +judging him hardly? and you, you know, so little acquainted +with him.'</p> + +<p>'I told you, dear, I'm a cross old thing—and there's an end; +and I really don't care two pence about him; and of the two +I'd much rather he were no relation of ours.'</p> + +<p>Now, was not this prejudice? I dare say in part it was. So, +too, was my vehement predisposition in his favour. I am afraid +we women are factionists; we always take a side, and nature has +formed us for advocates rather than judges; and I think the +function, if less dignified, is more amiable.</p> + +<p>I sat alone at the drawing-room window, at nightfall, awaiting +my cousin Monica's entrance.</p> + +<p>Feverish and frightened I felt that night. It was a sympathy, +I fancy, with the weather. The sun had set stormily. Though the +air was still, the sky looked wild and storm-swept. The crowding +clouds, slanting in the attitude of flight, reflected their own +sacred aspect upon my spirits. My grief darkened with a wild +presaging of danger, and a sense of the supernatural fell upon +me. It was the saddest and most awful evening that had come +since my beloved father's death.</p> + +<p>All kinds of shapeless fears environed me in silence. For the +first time, dire misgivings about the form of faith affrighted me. +Who were these Swedenborgians who had got about him—no one +could tell how—and held him so fast to the close of his life? +Who was this bilious, bewigged, black-eyed Doctor Bryerly, +whom none of us quite liked and all a little feared; who seemed +to rise out of the ground, and came and went, no one knew +whence or whither, exercising, as I imagined, a mysterious authority +over him? Was it all good and true, or a heresy and a +witchcraft? Oh, my beloved father! was it all well with you?</p> + +<p>When Lady Knollys entered, she found me in floods of tears, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>[pg 122]</span> + +walking distractedly up and down the room. She kissed me in +silence; she walked back and forward with me, and did her best +to console me.</p> + +<p>'I think, Cousin Monica, I would wish to see him once more. +Shall we go up?'</p> + +<p>'Unless you really wish it very much, I think, darling, you +had better not mind it. It is happier to recollect them as they +were; there's a change, you know, darling, and there is seldom +any comfort in the sight.'</p> + +<p>'But I do wish it <i>very</i> much. Oh! won't you come with me?'</p> + +<p>And so I persuaded her, and up we went hand in hand, in +the deepening twilight; and we halted at the end of the dark +gallery, and I called Mrs. Rusk, growing frightened.</p> + +<p>'Tell her to let us in, Cousin Monica,' I whispered.</p> + +<p>'She wishes to see him, my lady—does she?' enquired Mrs. +Rusk, in an under-tone, and with a mysterious glance at me, as +she softly fitted the key to the lock.</p> + +<p>'Are you quite sure, Maud, dear?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes.'</p> + +<p>But when Mrs. Rusk entered bearing the candle, whose beam +mixed dismally with the expiring twilight, disclosing a great +black coffin standing upon trestles, near the foot of which she +took her stand, gazing sternly into it, I lost heart again altogether +and drew back.</p> + +<p>'No, Mrs. Rusk, she won't; and I am very glad, dear,' she +added to me. 'Come, Mrs. Rusk, come away. Yes, darling,' she +continued to me, 'it is much better for you;' and she hurried +me away, and down-stairs again. But the awful outlines of that +large black coffin remained upon my imagination with a new +and terrible sense of death.</p> + +<p>I had no more any wish to see him. I felt a horror even of +the room, and for more than an hour after a kind of despair +and terror, such as I have never experienced before or since +at the idea of death.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica had had her bed placed in my room, and Mary +Quince's moved to the dressing-room adjoining it. For the first +time the superstitious awe that follows death, but not immediately, +visited me. The idea of seeing my father enter the room, +or open the door and look in, haunted me. After Lady Knollys +and I were in bed, I could not sleep. The wind sounded mournfully + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>[pg 123]</span> + +outside, and the small sounds, the rattlings, and strainings +that responded from within, constantly startled me, and +simulated the sounds of steps, of doors opening, of knockings, +and so forth, rousing me with a palpitating heart as often as I +fell into a doze.</p> + +<p>At length the wind subsided, and these ambiguous noises +abated, and I, fatigued, dropped into a quiet sleep. I was awakened +by a sound in the gallery—which I could not define. A considerable +time had passed, for the wind was now quite lulled. +I sat up in my bed a good deal scared, listening breathlessly +for I knew not what.</p> + +<p>I heard a step moving stealthily along the gallery. I called my +cousin Monica softly; and we both heard the door of the room +in which my father's body lay unlocked, some one furtively +enter, and the door shut.</p> + +<p>'What can it be? Good Heavens, Cousin Monica, do you +hear it?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, dear; and it is two o'clock.'</p> + +<p>Everyone at Knowl was in bed at eleven. We knew very well +that Mrs. Rusk was rather nervous, and would not, for worlds, +go alone, and at such an hour, to the room. We called Mary +Quince. We all three listened, but we heard no other sound. I +set these things down here because they made so terrible an +impression upon me at the time.</p> + +<p>It ended by our peeping out, all three in a body, upon the +gallery. Through each window in the perspective came its blue +sheet of moonshine; but the door on which our attention was +fixed was in the shade, and we thought we could discern the +glare of a candle through the key-hole. While in whispers we +were debating this point together, the door opened, the dusky +light of a candle emerged, the shadow of a figure crossed it +within, and in another moment the mysterious Doctor +Bryerly—angular, +ungainly, in the black cloth coat that fitted little +better than a coffin—issued from the chamber, candle in hand; +murmuring, I suppose, a prayer—it sounded like a farewell— +stepped cautiously upon the gallery floor, shutting and locking +the door upon the dead; and then having listened for a second, +the saturnine figure, casting a gigantic and distorted shadow + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>[pg 124]</span> + +upon the ceiling and side-wall from the lowered candle, strode +lightly down the long dark passage, away from us.</p> + +<p>I can only speak for myself, and I can honestly say that I felt +as much frightened as if I had just seen a sorcerer stealing +from his unhallowed business. I think Cousin Monica was also +affected in the same way, for she turned the key on the inside +of the door when we entered. I do not think one of us believed +at the moment that what we had seen was a Doctor Bryerly of +flesh and blood, and yet the first thing we spoke of in the +morning was Doctor Bryerly's arrival. The mind is a different +organ by night and by day.</p> + +<a name="chap23"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXIII</h3> + +<h2><i>I TALK WITH DOCTOR BRYERLY</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly had, indeed, arrived at half-past twelve o'clock +at night. His summons at the hall-door was little heard at our +remote side of the old house of Knowl; and when the sleepy, +half-dressed servant opened the door, the lank Doctor, in glossy +black clothing, was standing alone, his portmanteau on its end +upon the steps, and his vehicle disappearing in the shadows of +the old trees.</p> + +<p>In he came, sterner and sharper of aspect than usual.</p> + +<p>'I've been expected? I'm Doctor Bryerly. Haven't I? So, +let whoever is in charge of the body be called. I must visit it +forthwith.'</p> + +<p>So the Doctor sat in the back drawing-room, with a solitary +candle; and Mrs. Rusk was called up, and, grumbling much and +very peevish, dressed and went down, her ill-temper subsiding in +a sort of fear as she approached the visitor.</p> + +<p>'How do you do, Madam? A sad visit this. Is anyone watching +in the room where the remains of your late master are +laid?'</p> + +<p>'No.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133" id="page133"></a>[pg 125]</span> + +<p>'So much the better; it is a foolish custom. Will you please +conduct me to the room? I must pray where he lies—no longer +<i>he</i>! And be good enough to show me my bedroom, and so no +one need wait up, and I shall find my way.'</p> + +<p>Accompanied by the man who carried his valise, Mrs. Rusk +showed him to his apartment; but he only looked in, and then +glanced rapidly about to take 'the bearings' of the door.</p> + +<p>'Thank you—yes. Now we'll proceed, here, along here? Let +me see. A turn to the right and another to the left—yes. He has +been dead some days. Is he yet in his coffin?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir; since yesterday afternoon.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rusk was growing more and more afraid of this lean +figure sheathed in shining black cloth, whose eyes glittered with +a horrible sort of cunning, and whose long brown fingers groped +before him, as if indicating the way by guess.</p> + +<p>'But, of course, the lid's not on; you've not screwed him down, +hey?'</p> + +<p>'No, sir.'</p> + +<p>'That's well. I must look on the face as I pray. He is in his +place; I here on earth. He in the spirit; I in the flesh. The +neutral ground lies there. So are carried the vibrations, and so +the light of earth and heaven reflected back and forward—apaugasma, +a wonderful though helpless engine, the ladder of +Jacob, and behold the angels of God ascending and descending +on it. Thanks, I'll take the key. Mysteries to those who <i>will</i> live +altogether in houses of clay, no mystery to such as will use their +eyes and read what is revealed. <i>This</i> candle, it is the longer, +please; no—no need of a pair, thanks; just this, to hold in my +hand. And remember, all depends upon the willing mind. Why +do you look frightened? Where is your faith? Don't you know +that spirits are about us at all times? Why should you fear to +be near the body? The spirit is everything; the flesh profiteth +nothing.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir,' said Mrs. Rusk, making him a great courtesy in the +threshold.</p> + +<p>She was frightened by his eerie talk, which grew, she fancied, +more voluble and energetic as they approached the corpse.</p> + +<p>'Remember, then, that when you fancy yourself alone and +wrapt in darkness, you stand, in fact, in the centre of a theatre, +as wide as the starry floor of heaven, with an audience, whom + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134" id="page134"></a>[pg 126]</span> + +no man can number, beholding you under a flood of light. +Therefore, though your body be in solitude and your mortal +sense in darkness, remember to walk as being in the light, surrounded +with a cloud of witnesses. Thus walk; and when the +hour comes, and you pass forth unprisoned from the tabernacle +of the flesh, although it still has its relations and its rights'—and +saying this, as he held the solitary candle aloft in the doorway, +he nodded towards the coffin, whose large black form was +faintly traceable against the shadows beyond—'you will rejoice; +and being clothed upon with your house from on high, you will +not be found naked. On the other hand, he that loveth corruption +shall have enough thereof. Think upon these things. Good-night.'</p> + +<p>And the Swedenborgian Doctor stepped into the room, taking +the candle with him, and closed the door upon the shadowy +still-life there, and on his own sharp and swarthy visage, leaving +Mrs. Rusk in a sort of panic in the dark alone, to find her way +to her room the best way she could.</p> + +<p>Early in the morning Mrs. Rusk came to my room to tell me +that Doctor Bryerly was in the parlour, and begged to know +whether I had not a message for him. I was already dressed, +so, though it was dreadful seeing a stranger in my then mood, +taking the key of the cabinet in my hand, I followed Mrs. Rusk +downstairs.</p> + +<p>Opening the parlour door, she stepped in, and with a little +courtesy said,—</p> + +<p>'Please, sir, the young mistress—Miss Ruthyn.'</p> + +<p>Draped in black and very pale, tall and slight, 'the young +mistress' was; and as I entered I heard a newspaper rustle, and +the sound of steps approaching to meet me.</p> + +<p>Face to face we met, near the door; and, without speaking, +I made him a deep courtesy.</p> + +<p>He took my hand, without the least indication on my part, in +his hard lean grasp, and shook it kindly, but familiarly, peering +with a stern sort of curiosity into my face as he continued to +hold it. His ill-fitting, glossy black cloth, ungainly presence, and +sharp, dark, vulpine features had in them, as I said before, the +vulgarity of a Glasgow artisan in his Sabbath suit. I made an +instantaneous motion to withdraw my hand, but he held it +firmly.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135" id="page135"></a>[pg 127]</span> + +<p>Though there was a grim sort of familiarity, there was also +decision, shrewdness, and, above all, kindness, in his dark face—a +gleam on the whole of the masterly and the honest—that +along with a certain paleness, betraying, I thought, restrained +emotion, indicated sympathy and invited confidence.</p> + +<p>'I hope, Miss, you are pretty well?' He pronounced 'pretty' +as it is spelt. 'I have come in consequence of a solemn promise +exacted more than a year since by your deceased father, the late +Mr. Austin Ruthyn of Knowl, for whom I cherished a warm +esteem, being knit besides with him in spiritual bonds. It has +been a shock to you, Miss?'</p> + +<p>'It has, indeed, sir.'</p> + +<p>'I've a doctor's degree, I have—Doctor of Medicine, Miss. Like +St. Luke, preacher and doctor. I was in business once, but this +is better. As one footing fails, the Lord provides another. The +stream of life is black and angry; how so many of us get across +without drowning, I often wonder. The best way is not to look +too far before—just from one stepping-stone to another; and +though you may wet your feet, He won't let you drown—He has +not allowed me.'</p> + +<p>And Doctor Bryerly held up his head, and wagged it resolutely.</p> + +<p>'You are born to this world's wealth; in its way a great blessing, +though a great trial, Miss, and a great trust; but don't +suppose you are destined to exemption from trouble on that +account, any more than poor Emmanuel Bryerly. As the sparks +fly upwards, Miss Ruthyn! Your cushioned carriage may overturn +on the highroad, as I may stumble and fall upon the footpath. +There are other troubles than debt and privation. Who +can tell how long health may last, or when an accident may +happen the brain; what mortifications may await you in your +own high sphere; what unknown enemies may rise up in your +path; or what slanders may asperse your name—ha, ha! It is +a wonderful equilibrium—a marvellous dispensation—ha, ha!' +and he laughed with a shake of his head, I thought a little sarcastically, +as if he was not sorry my money could not avail to +buy immunity from the general curse.</p> + +<p>'But what money can't do, <i>prayer</i> can—bear that in mind, Miss +Ruthyn. We can all pray; and though thorns and snares, and +stones of fire lie strewn in our way, we need not fear them. He + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136" id="page136"></a>[pg 128]</span> + +will give His angels charge over us, and in their hands they will +bear us up, for He hears and sees everywhere, and His angels +are innumerable.'</p> + +<p>He was now speaking gently and solemnly, and paused. But +another vein of thought he had unconsciously opened in my +mind, and I said—</p> + +<p>'And had my dear papa no other medical adviser?'</p> + +<p>He looked at me sharply, and flushed a little under his dark +tint. His medical skill was, perhaps, the point on which his +human vanity vaunted itself, and I dare say there was something +very disparaging in my tone.</p> + +<p>'And if he <i>had</i> no other, he might have done worse. I've had +many critical cases in my hands, Miss Ruthyn. I can't charge +myself with any miscarriage through ignorance. My diagnosis +in Mr. Ruthyn's case has been verified by the result. But I was +<i>not</i> alone; Sir Clayton Barrow saw him, and took my view; +a note will reach him in London. But this, excuse me, is not +to the present purpose. The late Mr. Ruthyn told me I was to +receive a key from you, which would open a cabinet where he +had placed his will—ha! thanks,—in his study. And, I think, as +there may be directions about the funeral, it had better be read +forthwith. Is there any gentleman—a relative or man of business—near +here, whom you would wish sent for?'</p> + +<p>'No, none, thank you; I have confidence in you, sir.'</p> + +<p>I think I spoke and looked frankly, for he smiled very kindly, +though with closed lips.</p> + +<p>'And you may be sure, Miss Ruthyn, your confidence shall not +be disappointed.' Here was a long pause. 'But you are very +young, and you must have some one by in your interest, who +has some experience in business. Let me see. Is not the Rector, +Dr. Clay, at hand? In the town?—very good; and Mr. Danvers, +who manages the estate, <i>he</i> must come. And get Grimston—you +see I know all the names—Grimston, the attorney; for though he +was not employed about this will, he has been Mr. Ruthyn's +solicitor a great many years: we must have Grimston; for, as I +suppose you know, though it is a short will, it is a very strange +one. I expostulated, but you know he was very decided when +he took a view. He read it to you, eh?'</p> + +<p>'No, sir.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137" id="page137"></a>[pg 129]</span> + +<p>'Oh, but he told you so much as relates to you and your +uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of Bartram-Haugh?'</p> + +<p>'No, indeed, sir.'</p> + +<p>'Ha! I wish he had.'</p> + +<p>And with these words Doctor Bryerly's countenance darkened.</p> + +<p>'Mr. Silas Ruthyn is a religious man?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, <i>very</i>!' said I.</p> + +<p>'You've seen a good deal of him?'</p> + +<p>'No, I never saw him,' I answered.</p> + +<p>'H'm? Odder and odder! But he's a good man, isn't he?'</p> + +<p>'Very good, indeed, sir—a very religious man.'</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly was watching my countenance as I spoke, +with a sharp and anxious eye; and then he looked down, and +read the pattern of the carpet like bad news, for a while, and +looking again in my face, askance, he said—</p> + +<p>'He was very near joining <i>us</i>—on the point. He got into +correspondence with Henry Voerst, one of our best men. They +call us Swedenborgians, you know; but I dare say that won't go +much further, now. I suppose, Miss Ruthyn, one o'clock would +be a good hour, and I am sure, under the circumstances, the +gentlemen will make a point of attending.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Dr. Bryerly, the notes shall be sent, and my cousin, +Lady Knollys, would I am sure attend with me while the will is +being read—there would be no objection to her presence?'</p> + +<p>'None in the world. I can't be quite sure who are joined with +me as executors. I'm almost sorry I did not decline; but it is +too late regretting. One thing you must believe Miss Ruthyn: +in framing the provisions of the will I was never consulted—although +I expostulated against the only very unusual one it +contains when I heard it. I did so strenuously, but in vain. +There was one other against which I protested—having a right +to do so—with better effect. In no other way does the will in +any respect owe anything to my advice or dissuasion. You will +please believe this; also that I am your friend. Yes, indeed, it +is my duty.'</p> + +<p>The latter words he spoke looking down again, as it were in +soliloquy; and thanking him, I withdrew.</p> + +<p>When I reached the hall, I regretted that I had not asked him +to state distinctly what arrangements the will made so nearly +affecting, as it seemed, my relations with my uncle Silas, and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138" id="page138"></a>[pg 130]</span> + +for a moment I thought of returning and requesting an explanation. +But then, I bethought me, it was not very long to wait +till one o'clock—so <i>he</i>, at least, would think. I went up-stairs, +therefore, to the 'school-room,' which we used at present as a +sitting-room, and there I found Cousin Monica awaiting me.</p> + +<p>'Are you quite well, dear?' asked Lady Knollys, as she came +to meet and kiss me.</p> + +<p>'Quite well, Cousin Monica.'</p> + +<p>'No nonsense, Maud! you're as white as that handkerchief—what's +the matter? Are you ill—are you frightened? Yes, you're +trembling—you're terrified, child.'</p> + +<p>'I believe I <i>am</i> afraid. There <i>is</i> something in poor papa's will +about Uncle Silas—about <i>me</i>. I don't know—Doctor Bryerly says, +and he seems so uncomfortable and frightened himself, I am +sure it is something very bad. I am <i>very</i> much frightened—I am—I +<i>am</i>. Oh, Cousin Monica! you won't leave me?'</p> + +<p>So I threw my arms about her neck, clasping her very close, +and we kissed one another, I crying like a frightened child—and +indeed in experience of the world I was no more.</p> + +<a name="chap24"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXIV</h3> + +<h2><i>THE OPENING OF THE WILL</i></h2> + +<p>Perhaps the terror with which I anticipated the hour of one, +and the disclosure of the unknown undertaking to which I had +bound myself, was irrational and morbid. But, honestly, I doubt +it; my tendency has always been that of many other weak characters, +to act impetuously, and afterwards to reproach myself +for consequences which I have, perhaps, in reality, had little or +no share in producing.</p> + +<p>It was Doctor Bryerly's countenance and manner in alluding +to a particular provision in my father's will that instinctively +awed me. I have seen faces in a nightmare that haunted me with +an indescribable horror, and yet I could not say wherein lay + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page139" id="page139"></a>[pg 131]</span> + +the fascination. And so it was with his—an omen, a menace, +lurked in its sallow and dismal glance.</p> + +<p>'You must not be so frightened, darling,' said Cousin Monica. +'It is foolish; it <i>is, really</i>; they can't cut off your head, you +know: they can't really harm you in any essential way. If it +involved a risk of a little money, you would not mind it; but +men are such odd creatures—they measure all sacrifices by money. +Doctor Bryerly would look just as you describe, if you were +doomed to lose 500<i>l</i>., and yet it would not kill you.'</p> + +<p>A companion like Lady Knollys is reassuring; but I could +not take her comfort altogether to heart, for I felt that she had +no great confidence in it herself.</p> + +<p>There was a little French clock over the mantelpiece in the +school-room, which I consulted nearly every minute. It wanted +now but ten minutes of one.</p> + +<p>'Shall we go down to the drawing-room, dear?' said Cousin +Knollys, who was growing restless like me.</p> + +<p>So down-stairs we went, pausing by mutual consent at the +great window at the stair-head, which looks out on the avenue. +Mr. Danvers was riding his tall, grey horse at a walk, under the +wide branches toward the house, and we waited to see him get +off at the door. In his turn he loitered there, for the good +Rector's gig, driven by the Curate, was approaching at a smart +ecclesiastical trot.</p> + +<p>Doctor Clay got down, and shook hands with Mr. Danvers; +and after a word or two, away drove the Curate with that upward +glance at the windows from which so few can refrain.</p> + +<p>I watched the Rector and Mr. Danvers loitering on the steps +as a patient might the gathering of surgeons who are to perform +some unknown operation. They, too, glanced up at the window +as they turned to enter the house, and I drew back. Cousin +Monica looked at her watch.</p> + +<p>'Four minutes only. Shall we go to the drawing-room?'</p> + +<p>Waiting for a moment to let the gentlemen get by on the +way to the study, we, accordingly, went down, and I heard the +Rector talk of the dangerous state of Grindleston bridge, and +wondered how he could think of such things at a time of sorrow. +Everything about those few minutes of suspense remains fresh +in my recollection. I remember how they loitered and came to +a halt at the corner of the oak passage leading to the study, and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page140" id="page140"></a>[pg 132]</span> + +how the Rector patted the marble head and smoothed the inflexible +tresses of William Pitt, as he listened to Mr. Danvers' +details about the presentment; and then, as they went on, I +recollect the boisterous nose-blowing that suddenly resounded +from the passage, and which I then referred, and still refer, +intuitively to the Rector.</p> + +<p>We had not been five minutes in the drawing-room when +Branston entered, to say that the gentlemen I had mentioned +were all assembled in the study.</p> + +<p>'Come, dear,' said Cousin Monica; and leaning on her arm I +reached the study door. I entered, followed by her. The gentlemen +arrested their talk and stood up, those who were sitting, +and the Rector came forward very gravely, and in low tones, and +very kindly, greeted me. There was nothing emotional in this +salutation, for though my father never quarrelled, yet an immense +distance separated him from all his neighbours, and I +do not think there lived a human being who knew him at more +than perhaps a point or two of his character.</p> + +<p>Considering how entirely he secluded himself, my father was, +as many people living remember, wonderfully popular in his +county. He was neighbourly in everything except in seeing company +and mixing in society. He had magnificent shooting, of +which he was extremely liberal. He kept a pack of hounds at +Dollerton, with which all his side of the county hunted through +the season. He never refused any claim upon his purse which +had the slightest show of reason. He subscribed to every fund, +social, charitable, sporting, agricultural, no matter what, provided +the honest people of his county took an interest in it, +and always with a princely hand; and although he shut himself +up, no one could say that he was inaccessible, for he devoted +hours daily to answering letters, and his checque-book contributed +largely in those replies. He had taken his turn long ago +as High Sheriff; so there was an end of that claim before his +oddity and shyness had quite secluded him. He refused the Lord-Lieutenancy +of his county; he declined every post of personal +distinction connected with it. He could write an able as well as +a genial letter when he pleased; and his appearances at public +meetings, dinners, and so forth were made in this epistolary +fashion, and, when occasion presented, by magnificent contributions +from his purse.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141" id="page141"></a>[pg 133]</span> + +<p>If my father had been less goodnatured in the sporting relations +of his vast estates, or less magnificent in dealing with his +fortune, or even if he had failed to exhibit the intellectual +force which always characterised his letters on public matters, I +dare say that his oddities would have condemned him to ridicule, +and possibly to dislike. But every one of the principal +gentlemen of his county, whose judgment was valuable, has told +me that he was a remarkably able man, and that his failure in +public life was due to his eccentricities, and in no respect to +deficiency in those peculiar mental qualities which make men +feared and useful in Parliament.</p> + +<p>I could not forbear placing on record this testimony to the +high mental and the kindly qualities of my beloved father, who +might have passed for a misanthrope or a fool. He was a man of +generous nature and powerful intellect, but given up to the oddities +of a shyness which grew with years and indulgence, and +became inflexible with his disappointments and affliction.</p> + +<p>There was something even in the Rector's kind and ceremonious +greeting which oddly enough reflected the mixed feelings +in which awe was not without a place, with which his neighbours +had regarded my dear father.</p> + +<p>Having done the honours—I am sure looking woefully pale—I +had time to glance quietly at the only figure there with which +I was not tolerably familiar. This was the junior partner in the +firm of Archer and Sleigh who represented my uncle Silas—a +fat and pallid man of six-and-thirty, with a sly and evil countenance, +and it has always seemed to me, that ill dispositions +show more repulsively in a pale fat face than in any other.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly, standing near the window, was talking in a +low tone to Mr. Grimston, our attorney.</p> + +<p>I heard good Dr. Clay whisper to Mr. Danvers—</p> + +<p>'Is not that Doctor Bryerly—the person with the black—the +black—it's a wig, I think—in the window, talking to Abel Grimston?'</p> + +<p>'Yes; that's he.'</p> + +<p>'Odd-looking person—one of the Swedenborg people, is not +he?' continued the Rector.</p> + +<p>'So I am told.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said the Rector, quietly; and he crossed one gaitered +leg over the other, and, with fingers interlaced, twiddled his + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page142" id="page142"></a>[pg 134]</span> + +thumbs, as he eyed the monstrous sectary under his orthodox +old brows with a stern inquisitiveness. I thought he was meditating +theologic battle.</p> + +<p>But Dr. Bryerly and Mr. Grimston, still talking together, +began to walk slowly from the window, and the former said in +his peculiar grim tones—</p> + +<p>'I beg pardon, Miss Ruthyn; perhaps you would be so good +as to show us which of the cabinets in this room your late lamented +father pointed out as that to which this key belongs.'</p> + +<p>I indicated the oak cabinet.</p> + +<p>'Very good, ma'am—very good,' said Doctor Bryerly, as he +fumbled the key into the lock.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica could not forbear murmuring—</p> + +<p>'Dear! what a brute!'</p> + +<p>The junior partner, with his dumpy hands in his pocket, +poked his fat face over Mr. Grimston's shoulder, and peered +into the cabinet as the door opened.</p> + +<p>The search was not long. A handsome white paper enclosure, +neatly tied up in pink tape, and sealed with large red seals, +was inscribed in my dear father's hand:—'Will of Austin R. +Ruthyn, of Knowl.' Then, in smaller characters, the date, and +in the corner a note—'This will was drawn from my instructions +by Gaunt, Hogg, and Hatchett, Solicitors, Great Woburn Street, +London, A.R.R.'</p> + +<p>'Let <i>me</i> have a squint at that indorsement, please, gentlemen,' +half whispered the unpleasant person who represented my uncle +Silas.</p> + +<p>''<i>Tisn't</i> an indorsement. There, look—a memorandum on an +envelope,' said Abel Grimston, gruffly.</p> + +<p>'Thanks—all right—that will do,' he responded, himself +making a pencil-note of it, in a long clasp-book which he drew +from his coat-pocket.</p> + +<p>The tape was carefully cut, and the envelope removed without +tearing the writing, and forth came the will, at sight of +which my heart swelled and fluttered up to my lips, and then +dropped down dead as it seemed into its place.</p> + +<p>'Mr. Grimston, you will please to read it,' said Doctor Bryerly, +who took the direction of the process. 'I will sit beside you, +and as we go along you will be good enough to help us to +understand technicalities, and give us a lift where we want it.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143" id="page143"></a>[pg 135]</span> + +<p>'It's a short will,' said Mr. Grimston, turning over the sheets +'<i>very</i>—considering. Here's a codicil.'</p> + +<p>'I did not see that,' said Doctor Bryerly.</p> + +<p>'Dated only a month ago.'</p> + +<p>'Oh!' said Doctor Bryerly, putting on his spectacles. Uncle +Silas's ambassador, sitting close behind, had insinuated his face +between Doctor Bryerly's and the reader's of the will.</p> + +<p>'On behalf of the surviving brother of the testator,' interposed +the delegate, just as Abel Grimston had cleared his voice to begin, +'I take leave to apply for a copy of this instrument. It +will save a deal of trouble, if the young lady as represents the +testator here has no objection.'</p> + +<p>'You can have as many copies as you like when the will is +proved,' said Mr. Grimston.</p> + +<p>'I know that; but supposing as all's right, where's the objection?'</p> + +<p>'Just the objection there always is to acting irregular,' replied +Mr. Grimston.</p> + +<p>'You don't object to act disobliging, it seems.'</p> + +<p>'You can do as I told you,' replied Mr. Grimston.</p> + +<p>'Thank you for nothing,' murmured Mr. Sleigh.</p> + +<p>And the reading of the will proceeded, while he made elaborate +notes of its contents in his capacious pocket-book.</p> + +<p>'I, Austin Alymer Ruthyn Ruthyn, being, I thank God, of +sound mind and perfect recollection,' &c, &c.; and then came a +bequest of all his estates real, chattels real, copyrights, leases, +chattels, money, rights, interests, reversions, powers, plate, pictures, +and estates and possessions whatsoever, to four persons—Lord +Ilbury, Mr. Penrose Creswell of Creswell, Sir William Aylmer, +Bart., and Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, Doctor of Medicine, +'to have and to hold,' &c. &c. Whereupon my Cousin Monica +ejaculated 'Eh?' and Doctor Bryerly interposed—</p> + +<p>'Four trustees, ma'am. We take little but trouble—you'll see; +go on.'</p> + +<p>Then it came out that all this multifarious splendour was bequeathed +in trust for me, subject to a bequest of 15,000<i>l</i>. to his +only brother, Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, and 3,500<i>l</i>. each to the two +children of his said brother; and lest any doubt should arise +by reason of his, the testator's decease as to the continuance of +the arrangement by way of lease under which he enjoyed his + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144" id="page144"></a>[pg 136]</span> + +present habitation and farm, he left him the use of the mansion-house +and lands of Bartram-Haugh, in the county of Derbyshire, +and of the lands of so-and-so and so-and-so, adjoining thereto, +in the said county, for the term of his natural life, on payment +of a rent of 5<i>s</i>. per annum, and subject to the like conditions as +to waste, &c., as are expressed in the said lease.</p> + +<p>'By your leave, may I ask is them dispositions all the devises +to my client, which is his only brother, as it seems to me you've +seen the will before?' enquired Mr. Sleigh.</p> + +<p>'Nothing more, unless there is something in the codicil,' answered +Dr. Bryerly.</p> + +<p>But there was no mention of him in the codicil.</p> + +<p>Mr. Sleigh threw himself back in his chair, and sneered, with +the end of his pencil between his teeth. I hope his disappointment +was altogether for his client. Mr. Danvers fancied, he afterwards +said, that he had probably expected legacies which might +have involved litigation, or, at all events, law costs, and perhaps +a stewardship; but this was very barren; and Mr. Danvers +also remarked, that the man was a very low practitioner, and +wondered how my uncle Silas could have commissioned such a +person to represent him.</p> + +<p>So far the will contained nothing of which my most partial +friend could have complained. The codicil, too, devised only +legacies to servants, and a sum of 1,000<i>l</i>., with a few kind words, +to Monica, Lady Knollys, and a further sum of 3,000<i>l</i>. to Dr. +Bryerly, stating that the legatee had prevailed upon him to +erase from the draft of his will a bequest to him to that amount, +but that, in consideration of all the trouble devolving upon him +as trustee, he made that bequest by his codicil; and with these +arrangements the permanent disposition of his property was +completed.</p> + +<p>But that direction to which he and Doctor Bryerly had darkly +alluded, was now to come, and certainly it was a strange one. +It appointed my uncle Silas my sole guardian, with full parental +authority over me until I should have reached the age of twenty-one, +up to which time I was to reside under his care at Bartram-Haugh, +and it directed the trustees to pay over to him yearly a +sum of 2,000<i>l</i>. during the continuance of the guardianship for +my suitable maintenance, education, and expenses.</p> + +<p>You have now a sufficient outline of my father's will. The only + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page145" id="page145"></a>[pg 137]</span> + +thing I painfully felt in this arrangement was, the break-up—the +dismay that accompanies the disappearance of home. Otherwise, +there was something rather pleasurable in the idea. As long as I +could remember, I had always cherished the same mysterious +curiosity about my uncle, and the same longing to behold him. +This was about to be gratified. Then there was my cousin Milicent, +about my own age. My life had been so lonely, that I had acquired +none of those artificial habits that induce the fine-lady nature—a +second, and not always a very amiable one. She had lived a solitary +life, like me. What rambles and readings +we should have together! what confidences and castle-buildings! +and then there was a new country and a fine old place, and the +sense of interest and adventure that always accompanies change +in our early youth.</p> + +<p>There were four letters all alike with large, red seals, addressed +respectively to each of the trustees named in the will. +There was also one addressed to Silas Alymer Ruthyn, Esq., +Bartram-Haugh Manor, &c. &c., which Mr. Sleigh offered to +deliver. But Doctor Bryerly thought the post-office was the more +regular channel. Uncle Silas's representative was questioning +Doctor Bryerly in an under-tone.</p> + +<p>I turned my eyes on my cousin Monica—I felt so inexpressibly +relieved—expecting to see a corresponding expression in her +countenance. But I was startled. She looked ghastly and angry. +I stared in her face, not knowing what to think. Could the will +have personally disappointed her? Such doubts, though we +fancy in after-life they belong to maturity and experience only, +do sometimes cross our minds in youth. But the suggestion wronged +Lady Knollys, who neither expected nor wanted anything, +being rich, childless, generous, and frank. It was the unexpected +character of her countenance that scared me, and for +a moment the shock called up corresponding moral images.</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys, starting up, raised her head, so as to see over +Mr. Sleigh's shoulder, and biting her pale lip, she cleared her +voice and demanded—</p> + +<p>'Doctor Bryerly, pray, sir, is the reading concluded?'</p> + +<p>'Concluded? Quite. Yes, nothing more,' he answered with a +nod, and continued his talk with Mr. Danvers and Abel Grimston.</p> + +<p>'And to whom,' said Lady Knollys, with an effort, 'will the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146" id="page146"></a>[pg 138]</span> + +property belong, in case—in case my little cousin here should +die before she comes of age?'</p> + +<p>'Eh? Well—wouldn't it go to the heir-at-law and next of +kin?' said Doctor Bryerly, turning to Abel Grimston.</p> + +<p>'Ay—to be sure,' said the attorney, thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>'And who is that?' pursued my cousin.</p> + +<p>'Well, her uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn. He's both heir-at-law +and next of kin,' pursued Abel Grimston.</p> + +<p>'Thank you,' said Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>Doctor Clay came forward, bowing very low, in his standing +collar and single-breasted coat, and graciously folded my hand +in his soft wrinkled grasp—</p> + +<p>'Allow me, my dear Miss Ruthyn, while expressing my regret +that we are to lose you from among our little flock—though I +trust but for a short, a very short time—to say how I rejoice at the +particular arrangement indicated by the will we have just heard +read. My curate, William Fairfield, resided for some years in +the same spiritual capacity in the neighbourhood of your, I will +say, admirable uncle, with occasional intercourse with whom he +was favoured—may I not say blessed?—a true Christian Churchman—a +Christian gentleman. Can I say more? A most happy, +happy choice.' A very low bow here, with eyes nearly closed, +and a shake of the head. 'Mrs. Clay will do herself the honour +of waiting upon you, to pay her respects, before you leave Knowl +for your temporary sojourn in another sphere.'</p> + +<p>So, with another deep bow—for I had become a great personage +all at once—he let go my hand cautiously and delicately, +as if he were setting down a curious china tea-cup. And I courtesied +low to him, not knowing what to say, and then to the +assembly generally, who all bowed. And Cousin Monica whispered, +briskly, 'Come away,' and took my hand with a very cold +and rather damp one, and led me from the room.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page147" id="page147"></a>[pg 139]</span> + +<a name="chap25"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXV</h3> + +<h2><i>I HEAR FROM UNCLE SILAS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Without saying a word, Cousin Monica accompanied me to the +school-room, and on entering she shut the door, not with a +spirited clang, but quietly and determinedly.</p> + +<p>'Well, dear,' she said, with the same pale, excited countenance, +'that certainly is a sensible and charitable arrangement. +I could not have believed it possible, had I not heard it with +my ears.'</p> + +<p>'About my going to Bartram-Haugh?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, exactly so, under Silas Ruthyn's guardianship, to spend +two—<i>three</i>—of the most important years of your education and +your life under that roof. Is <i>that</i>, my dear, what was in your +mind when you were so alarmed about what you were to be +called upon to do, or undergo?'</p> + +<p>'No, no, indeed. I had no notion what it might be. I was +afraid of something serious,' I answered.</p> + +<p>'And, my dear Maud, did not your poor father speak to you as +if it <i>was</i> something serious?' said she. 'And so it <i>is</i>, I can tell +you, something serious, and <i>very</i> serious; and I think it ought to +be prevented, and I certainly <i>will</i> prevent it if I possibly can.'</p> + +<p>I was puzzled utterly by the intensity of Lady Knollys' protest. +I looked at her, expecting an explanation of her meaning; but +she was silent, looking steadfastly on the jewels on her right-hand +fingers, with which she was drumming a staccato march +on the table, very pale, with gleaming eyes, evidently thinking +deeply. I began to think she <i>had</i> a prejudice against my uncle +Silas.</p> + +<p>'He is not very rich,' I commenced.</p> + +<p>'Who?' said Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'Uncle Silas,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'No, certainly; he's in debt,' she answered.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page148" id="page148"></a>[pg 140]</span> + +<p>'But then, how very highly Doctor Clay spoke of him!' I pursued.</p> + +<p>'Don't talk of Doctor Clay. I do think that man is the greatest +goose I ever heard talk. I have no patience with such men,' +she replied.</p> + +<p>I tried to remember what particular nonsense Doctor Clay had +uttered, and I could recollect nothing, unless his eulogy upon +my uncle were to be classed with that sort of declamation.</p> + +<p>'Danvers is a very proper man and a good accountant, I dare say; +but he is either a very deep person, or a fool—<i>I</i> believe +a fool. As for your attorney, I suppose he knows his business, and +also his interest, and I have no doubt he will consult it. I begin +to think the best man among them, the shrewdest and the most reliable, +is that vulgar visionary in the black wig. I saw him look at you, Maud, +and I liked his face, though it is abominably ugly and vulgar, and +cunning, too; but I think he's a just man, and I dare say with +right feelings—I'm <i>sure</i> he has.'</p> + +<p>I was quite at a loss to divine the gist of my cousin's criticism.</p> + +<p>'I'll have some talk with Dr. Bryerly; I feel convinced he +takes my view, and we must really think what had best be +done.'</p> + +<p>'Is there anything in the will, Cousin Monica, that does not appear?' +I asked, for I was growing very uneasy. 'I wish you would tell me. What +view do you mean?'</p> + +<p>'No view in particular; the view that a desolate old park, and the house +of a <i>neglected</i> old man, who is very poor, and has been desperately +foolish, is not the right place for you, particularly at your years. It is +quite shocking, and I <i>will</i> speak to Doctor Bryerly. May I ring +the bell, dear?'</p> + +<p>'Certainly;' and I rang it.</p> + +<p>'When does he leave Knowl?'</p> + +<p>I could not tell. Mrs. Rusk, however, was sent for, and she could tell us +that he had announced his intention of taking the night train from +Drackleton, and was to leave Knowl for that station at half-past +six o'clock.</p> + +<p>'May Rusk give or send him a message from me, dear?' asked Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>Of course she might.</p> + +<p>'Then please let him know that I request he will be so good + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149" id="page149"></a>[pg 141]</span> + +as to allow me a very few minutes, just to say a word before he +goes.'</p> + +<p>'You kind cousin!' I said, placing my two hands on her +shoulders, and looking earnestly in her face; 'you are anxious +about me, more than you say. Won't you tell me why? I am +much more unhappy, really, in ignorance, than if I understood +the cause.'</p> + +<p>'Well, dear, haven't I told you? The two or three years of +your life which are to form you are destined to be passed in +utter loneliness, and, I am sure, neglect. You can't estimate +the disadvantage of such an arrangement. It is full of disadvantages. +How it could have entered the head of poor Austin—although +I should not say that, for I am sure I do understand it,—but +how he could for any purpose have directed such a measure +is quite inconceivable. I never heard of anything so foolish +and abominable, and I will prevent it if I can.'</p> + +<p>At that moment Mrs. Rusk announced that Doctor Bryerly +would see Lady Knollys at any time she pleased before his +departure.</p> + +<p>'It shall be this moment, then,' said the energetic lady, and +up she stood, and made that hasty general adjustment before +the glass, which, no matter under what circumstances, and before +what sort of creature one's appearance is to be made, is a +duty that every woman owes to herself. And I heard her a moment +after, at the stair-head, directing Branston to let Dr. Bryerly +know that she awaited him in the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>And now she was gone, and I began to wonder and speculate. +Why should my cousin Monica make all this fuss about, +after all, a very natural arrangement? My uncle, whatever he +might have been, was now a good man—a religious man—perhaps +a little severe; and with this thought a dark streak fell across +my sky.</p> + +<p>A cruel disciplinarian! had I not read of such characters?—lock +and key, bread and water, and solitude! To sit locked up +all night in a dark out-of-the-way room, in a great, ghosty, old-fashioned +house, with no one nearer than the other wing. What +years of horror in one such night! Would not this explain my +poor father's hesitation, and my cousin Monica's apparently +disproportioned opposition? When an idea of terror presents + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150" id="page150"></a>[pg 142]</span> + +itself to a young person's mind, it transfixes and fills the vision, +without respect of probabilities or reason.</p> + +<p>My uncle was now a terrible old martinet, with long Bible +lessons, lectures, pages of catechism, sermons to be conned by +rote, and an awful catalogue of punishments for idleness, and +what would seem to him impiety. I was going, then, to a frightful +isolated reformatory, where for the first time in my life I +should be subjected to a rigorous and perhaps barbarous discipline.</p> + +<p>All this was an exhalation of fancy, but it quite overcame +me. I threw myself, in my solitude, on the floor, upon my knees, +and prayed for deliverance—prayed that Cousin Monica might +prevail with Doctor Bryerly, and both on my behalf with the +Lord Chancellor, or the High Sheriff, or whoever else my proper +deliverer might be; and when my cousin returned, she found me +quite in an agony.</p> + +<p>'Why, you little fool! what fancy has taken possession of you +now?' she cried.</p> + +<p>And when my new terror came to light, she actually laughed +a little to reassure me, and she said—</p> + +<p>'My dear child, your uncle Silas will never put you through +your duty to your neighbour; all the time you are under his +roof you'll have idleness and liberty enough, and too much, I +fear. It is neglect, my dear, not discipline, that I'm afraid of.'</p> + +<p>'I think, dear Cousin Monica, you are afraid of something +more than neglect,' I said, relieved, however.</p> + +<p>'I <i>am</i> afraid of more than neglect,' she replied promptly; +'but I hope my fears may turn out illusory, and that possibly +they may be avoided. And now, for a few hours at least, let us +think of something else. I rather like that Doctor Bryerly. I +could not get him to say what I wanted. I don't think he's +Scotch, but he is very cautious, and I am sure, though he would +not say so, that he thinks of the matter exactly as I do. He says +that those fine people, who are named as his co-trustees, won't +take any trouble, and will leave everything to him, and I am +sure he is right. So we must not quarrel with him, Maud, nor +call him hard names, although he certainly is intolerably vulgar +and ugly, and at times very nearly impertinent—I suppose without +knowing, or indeed very much caring.'</p> + +<p>We had a good deal to think of, and talked incessantly. There + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151" id="page151"></a>[pg 143]</span> + +were bursts and interruptions of grief, and my kind cousin's +consolations. I have often since been so lectured for giving way +to grief, that I wonder at the patience exercised by her during +this irksome visit. Then there was some reading of that book +whose claims are always felt in the terrible days of affliction. +After that we had a walk in the yew garden, that quaint little +cloistered quadrangle—the most solemn, sad, and antiquated of +gardens.</p> + +<p>'And now, my dear, I must really leave you for two or three +hours. I have ever so many letters to write, and my people must +think I'm dead by this time.'</p> + +<p>So till tea-time I had poor Mary Quince, with her gushes of +simple prattle and her long fits of vacant silence, for my companion. +And such a one, who can con over by rote the old +friendly gossip about the dead, talk about their ways, and looks, +and likings, without much psychologic refinement, but with a +simple admiration and liking that never measured them critically, +but always with faith and love, is in general about as comfortable +a companion as one can find for the common moods of +grief.</p> + +<p>It is not easy to recall in calm and happy hours the sensations +of an acute sorrow that is past. Nothing, by the merciful ordinance +of God, is more difficult to remember than pain. One or +two great agonies of that time I do remember, and they remain +to testify of the rest, and convince me, though I can see it no +more, how terrible all that period was.</p> + +<p>Next day was the funeral, that appalling necessity; smuggled +away in whispers, by black familiars, unresisting, the beloved +one leaves home, without a farewell, to darken those doors no +more; henceforward to lie outside, far away, and forsaken, +through the drowsy heats of summer, through days of snow and +nights of tempest, without light or warmth, without a voice +near. Oh, Death, king of terrors! The body quakes and the +spirit faints before thee. It is vain, with hands clasped over our +eyes, to scream our reclamation; the horrible image will not +be excluded. We have just the word spoken eighteen hundred +years ago, and our trembling faith. And through the broken +vault the gleam of the Star of Bethlehem.</p> + +<p>I was glad in a sort of agony when it was over. So long as it + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152" id="page152"></a>[pg 144]</span> + +remained to be done, something of the catastrophe was still +suspended. Now it was all over.</p> + +<p>The house so strangely empty. No owner—no master! I with +my strange momentary liberty, bereft of that irreplaceable love, +never quite prized until it is lost. Most people have experienced +the dismay that underlies sorrow under such circumstances.</p> + +<p>The apartment of the poor outcast from life is now dismantled. +Beds and curtains taken down, and furniture displaced; carpets +removed, windows open and doors locked; the bedroom and +anteroom were henceforward, for many a day, uninhabited. +Every shocking change smote my heart like a reproach.</p> + +<p>I saw that day that Cousin Monica had been crying for the +first time, I think, since her arrival at Knowl; and I loved her +more for it, and felt consoled. My tears have often been arrested +by the sight of another person weeping, and I never could explain +why. But I believe that many persons experience the same +odd reaction.</p> + +<p>The funeral was conducted, in obedience to his brief but +peremptory direction, very privately and with little expense. +But of course there was an attendance, and the tenants of the +Knowl estate also followed the hearse to the mausoleum, as it is +called, in the park, where he was laid beside my dear mother. +And so the repulsive ceremonial of that dreadful day was over. +The grief remained, but there was rest from the fatigue of agitation, +and a comparative calm supervened.</p> + +<p>It was now the stormy equinoctial weather that sounds the +wild dirge of autumn, and marches the winter in. I love, and +always did, that grand undefinable music, threatening and bewailing, +with its strange soul of liberty and desolation.</p> + +<p>By this night's mail, as we sat listening to the storm, in the +drawing-room at Knowl, there reached me a large letter with +a great black seal, and a wonderfully deep-black border, like +a widow's crape. I did not recognise the handwriting; but on +opening the funereal missive, it proved to be from my uncle +Silas, and was thus expressed:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAREST</small> N<small>IECE</small>,—This letter will reach you, probably, on +the day which consigns the mortal remains of my beloved +brother, Austin, your dear father, to the earth. Sad ceremony, +from taking my mournful part in which I am excluded by years, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153" id="page153"></a>[pg 145]</span> + +distance, and broken health. It will, I trust, at this season of +desolation, be not unwelcome to remember that a substitute, +imperfect—unworthy—but most affectionately zealous, for the +honoured parent whom you have just lost, has been appointed, +in me, your uncle, by his will. I am aware that you were present +during the reading of it, but I think it will be for our mutual +satisfaction that our new and more affectionate relations should +be forthwith entered upon. My conscience and your safety, and +I trust convenience, will thereby be consulted. You will, my dear +niece, remain at Knowl, until a few simple arrangements shall +have been completed for your reception at this place. I will then +settle the details of your little journey to us, which shall be performed +as comfortably and easily as possible. I humbly pray +that this affliction may be sanctified to us all, and that in our +new duties we may be supported, comforted, and directed. I +need not remind you that I now stand to you <i>in loco parentis</i>, +which means in the relation of father, and you will not forget +that you are to remain at Knowl until you hear further from me.</p> + +<p>'I remain, my dear niece, your most affectionate uncle and +guardian,</p> + +<p class="signature">S<small>ILAS</small> R<small>UTHYN</small>.'</p> + +<p>'P.S.—Pray present my respects to Lady Knollys, who, I +understand, is sojourning at Knowl. I would observe that a +lady who cherishes, I have reason to fear, unfriendly feelings +against your uncle, is not the most desirable companion for his +ward. But upon the express condition that I am not made the +subject of your discussions—a distinction which could not +conduce to your forming a just and respectful estimate of me—I +do not interpose my authority to bring your intercourse to an +immediate close.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>As I read this postscript, my cheek tingled as if I had received +a box on the ear. Uncle Silas was as yet a stranger. The menace +of authority was new and sudden, and I felt with a pang of mortification +the full force of the position in which my dear father's +will had placed me.</p> + +<p>I was silent, and handed the letter to my cousin, who read it +with a kind of smile until she came, as I supposed, to the postscript, +when her countenance, on which my eyes were fixed, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page154" id="page154"></a>[pg 146]</span> + +changed, and with flushed cheeks she knocked the hand that +held the letter on the table before her, and exclaimed—</p> + +<p>'Did I ever hear! Well, if this isn't impertinence! <i>What</i> an +old man that is!'</p> + +<p>There was a pause, during which Lady Knollys held her head +high with a frown, and sniffed a little.</p> + +<p>'I did not intend to talk about him, but now I <i>will</i>. I'll talk +away just whatever I like; and I'll stay here just as long as you +let me, Maud, and you need not be one atom afraid of him. Our +intercourse to an "immediate close," indeed! I only wish he +were here. He should hear something!'</p> + +<p>And Cousin Monica drank off her entire cup of tea at one +draught, and then she said, more in her own way—</p> + +<p>'I'm better!' and drew a long breath, and then she laughed +a little in a waggish defiance. 'I wish we had him here, Maud, +and <i>would</i> not we give him a bit of our minds! And this before +the poor will is so much as proved!'</p> + +<p>'I am almost glad he wrote that postscript; for although I +don't think he has any authority in that matter while I am under +my own roof,' I said, extemporising a legal opinion, 'and, therefore, +shan't obey him, it has somehow opened my eyes to my real +situation.'</p> + +<p>I sighed, I believe, very desolately, for Lady Knollys came +over and kissed me very gently and affectionately.</p> + +<p>'It really seems, Maud, as if he had a supernatural sense, and +heard things through the air over fifty miles of heath and hill. +You remember how, just as he was probably writing that very +postscript yesterday, I was urging you to come and stay with +me, and planning to move Dr. Bryerly in our favour. And so I +will, Maud, and to me you <i>shall</i> come—my guest, mind—I should +be so delighted; and really if Silas is under a cloud, it has been +his own doing, and I don't see that it is your business to fight +his battle. He can't live very long. The suspicion, whatever it is +dies with him, and what could poor dear Austin prove by his +will but what everybody knew quite well before—his own strong +belief in Silas's innocence? What an awful storm! The room +trembles. Don't you like the sound? What they used to call +'wolving' in the old organ at Dorminster!'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155" id="page155"></a>[pg 147]</span> + +<a name="chap26"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXVI</h3> + +<h2><i>THE STORY OF UNCLE SILAS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>And so it was like the yelling of phantom hounds and hunters, +and the thunder of their coursers in the air—a furious, grand +and supernatural music, which in my fancy made a suitable accompaniment +to the discussion of that enigmatical +person—martyr—angel—demon—Uncle Silas—with whom my fate was now +so strangely linked, and whom I had begun to fear.</p> + +<p>'The storm blows from that point,' I said, indicating it with +my hand and eye, although the window shutters and curtains +were closed. 'I saw all the trees bend that way this evening. +That way stands the great lonely wood, where my darling father +and mother lie. Oh, how dreadful on nights like this, to think +of them—a vault!—damp, and dark, and solitary—under the +storm.'</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica looked wistfully in the same direction, and +with a short sigh she said—</p> + +<p>'We think too much of the poor remains, and too little of +the spirit which lives for ever. I am sure they are happy.' And +she sighed again. 'I wish I dare hope as confidently for myself. +Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are such materialists, we can't help +feeling so. We forget how well it is for us that our present bodies +are not to last always. They are constructed for a time and place +of trouble—plainly mere temporary machines that wear out, +constantly exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous +capacity for pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought, for +it is plainly its good Creator's will; it is only the tabernacle, not +the person, who is clothed upon after death, Saint Paul says, +"with a house which is from heaven." So Maud, darling, although +the thought will trouble us again and again, there is nothing in +it; and the poor mortal body is only the cold ruin of a habitation +which <i>they</i> have forsaken before we do. So this great wind, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156" id="page156"></a>[pg 148]</span> + +you say, is blowing toward us from the wood there. If so, +Maud, it is blowing from Bartram-Haugh, too, over the trees +and chimneys of that old place, and the mysterious old man, +who is quite right in thinking I don't like him; and I can fancy +him an old enchanter in his castle, waving his familiar spirits +on the wind to fetch and carry tidings of our occupations here.'</p> + +<p>I lifted my head and listened to the storm, dying away in +the distance sometimes—sometimes swelling and pealing around +and above us—and through the dark and solitude my thoughts +sped away to Bartram-Haugh and Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>'This letter,' I said at last, 'makes me feel differently. I think +he is a stern old man—is he?'</p> + +<p>'It is twenty years, now, since I saw him,' answered Lady +Knollys. 'I did not choose to visit at his house.'</p> + +<p>'Was that before the dreadful occurrence at Bartram-Haugh?'</p> + +<p>'Yes—before, dear. He was not a reformed rake, but only a +ruined one then. Austin was very good to him. Mr. Danvers +says it is quite unaccountable how Silas can have made away +with the immense sums he got from his brother from time to +time without benefiting himself in the least. But, my dear, he +played; and trying to help a man who plays, and is unlucky—and +some men are, I believe, habitually unlucky—is like trying +to fill a vessel that has no bottom. I think, by-the-by, my hopeful +nephew, Charles Oakley, plays. Then Silas went most unjustifiably into all +manner of speculations, and your poor father +had to pay everything. He lost something quite astounding in +that bank that ruined so many country gentlemen—poor Sir +Harry Shackleton, in Yorkshire, had to sell half his estate. But +your kind father went on helping him, up to his marriage—I +mean in that extravagant way which was really totally useless.'</p> + +<p>'Has my aunt been long dead?'</p> + +<p>'Twelve or fifteen years—more, indeed—she died before your +poor mamma. She was very unhappy, and I am sure would have +given her right hand she had never married Silas.'</p> + +<p>'Did you like her?'</p> + +<p>'No, dear; she was a coarse, vulgar woman.'</p> + +<p>'Coarse and vulgar, and Uncle Silas's wife!' I echoed in extreme surprise, +for Uncle Silas was a man of fashion—a beau +in his day—and might have married women of good birth and +fortune, I had no doubt, and so I expressed myself.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page157" id="page157"></a>[pg 149]</span> + +<p>'Yes, dear; so he might, and poor dear Austin was very +anxious he should, and would have helped him with a handsome +settlement, I dare say, but he chose to marry the daughter of a +Denbigh innkeeper.'</p> + +<p>'How utterly incredible!' I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>'Not the least incredible, dear—a kind of thing not at all +so uncommon as you fancy.'</p> + +<p>'What!—a gentleman of fashion and refinement marry a +person—'</p> + +<p>'A barmaid!—just so,' said Lady Knollys. 'I think I could +count half a dozen men of fashion who, to my knowledge, have +ruined themselves just in a similar way.'</p> + +<p>'Well, at all events, it must be allowed that in this he proved +himself altogether unworldly.'</p> + +<p>'Not a bit unworldly, but very vicious,' replied Cousin Monica, +with a careless little laugh. 'She was very beautiful, curiously beautiful, +for a person in her station. She was very like +that Lady Hamilton who was Nelson's sorceress—elegantly +beautiful, but perfectly low and stupid. I believe, to do him +justice, he only intended to ruin her; but she was cunning +enough to insist upon marriage. Men who have never in all +their lives denied themselves the indulgence of a single fancy, +cost what it may, will not be baulked even by that condition if +the <i>penchant</i> be only violent enough.'</p> + +<p>I did not half understand this piece of worldly psychology, at +which Lady Knollys seemed to laugh.</p> + +<p>'Poor Silas, certainly he struggled honestly against the consequences, for +he tried after the honeymoon to prove the marriage +bad. But the Welsh parson and the innkeeper papa were too +strong for him, and the young lady was able to hold her struggling +swain fast in that respectable noose—and a pretty prize +he proved!'</p> + +<p>'And she died, poor thing, broken-hearted, I heard.'</p> + +<p>'She died, at all events, about ten years after her marriage; +but I really can't say about her heart. She certainly had enough +ill-usage, I believe, to kill her; but I don't know that she had +feeling enough to die of it, if it had not been that she drank: I +am told that Welsh women often do. There was jealousy, of +course, and brutal quarrelling, and all sorts of horrid stories. I +visited at Bartram-Haugh for a year or two, though no one + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page158" id="page158"></a>[pg 150]</span> + +else would. But when that sort of thing began, of course I gave +it up; it was out of the question. I don't think poor Austin +ever knew how bad it was. And then came that odious business +about wretched Mr. Charke. You know he—he committed suicide +at Bartram.'</p> + +<p>'I never heard about that,' I said; and we both paused, and +she looked sternly at the fire, and the storm roared and ha-ha-ed +till the old house shook again.</p> + +<p>'But Uncle Silas could not help that,' I said at last.</p> + +<p>'No, he could not help it,' she acquiesced unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>'And Uncle Silas was'—I paused in a sort of fear.</p> + +<p>'He was suspected by some people of having killed him'—she +completed the sentence.</p> + +<p>There was another long pause here, during which the storm +outside bellowed and hooted like an angry mob roaring at the +windows for a victim. An intolerable and sickening sensation +overpowered me.</p> + +<p>'But <i>you</i> did not suspect him, Cousin Knollys?' I said, +trembling very much.</p> + +<p>'No,' she answered very sharply. 'I told you so before. Of +course I did not.'</p> + +<p>There was another silence.</p> + +<p>'I wish, Cousin Monica,' I said, drawing close to her, 'you +had not said <i>that</i> about Uncle Silas being like a wizard, and +sending his spirits on the wind to listen. But I'm very glad +you never suspected him.' I insinuated my cold hand into hers, +and looked into her face I know not with what expression. She +looked down into mine with a hard, haughty stare, I thought.</p> + +<p>'Of <i>course</i> I never suspected him; and <i>never</i> ask me +<i>that</i> question again, Maud Ruthyn.'</p> + +<p>Was it family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely +from her eyes as she said this? I was frightened—I was wounded—I +burst into tears.</p> + +<p>'What is my darling crying for? I did not mean to be cross. +<i>Was</i> I cross?' said this momentary phantom of a grim Lady +Knollys, in an instant translated again into kind, pleasant +Cousin Monica, with her arms about my neck.</p> + +<p>'No, no, indeed—only I thought I had vexed you; and, I believe, thinking +of Uncle Silas makes me nervous, and I can't help thinking of him nearly +always.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page159" id="page159"></a>[pg 151]</span> + +<p>'Nor can I, although we might both easily find something +better to think of. Suppose we try?' said Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'But, first, I must know a little more about that Mr. Charke, +and what circumstances enabled Uncle Silas's enemies to found +on his death that wicked slander, which has done no one any +good, and caused some persons so much misery. There is Uncle +Silas, I may say, ruined by it; and we all know how it darkened +the life of my dear father.'</p> + +<p>'People will talk, my dear. Your uncle Silas had injured +himself before that in the opinion of the people of his county. +He was a black sheep, in fact. Very bad stories were told and +believed of him. His marriage certainly was a disadvantage, you +know, and the miserable scenes that went on in his disreputable +house—all that predisposed people to believe ill of him.'</p> + +<p>'How long is it since it happened?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, a long time; I think before you were born,' answered +she.</p> + +<p>'And the injustice still lives—they have not forgotten it yet?' +said I, for such a period appeared to me long enough to have +consigned anything in its nature perishable to oblivion.</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys smiled.</p> + +<p>'Tell me, like a darling cousin, the whole story as well as you +can recollect it. Who was Mr. Charke?'</p> + +<p>'Mr. Charke, my dear, was a gentleman on the turf—that is +the phrase, I think—one of those London men, without birth +or breeding, who merely in right of their vices and their money +are admitted to associate with young dandies who like hounds +and horses, and all that sort of thing. That set knew him very +well, but of course no one else. He was at the Matlock races, +and your uncle asked him to Bartram-Haugh; and the creature, +Jew or Gentile, whatever he was, fancied there was more honour +than, perhaps, there really was in a visit to Bartram-Haugh.'</p> + +<p>'For the kind of person you describe, it <i>was</i>, I think, a rather +unusual honour to be invited to stay in the house of a man of +Uncle Ruthyn's birth.'</p> + +<p>'Well, so it was perhaps; for though they knew him very +well on the course, and would ask him to their tavern dinners, +they would not, of course, admit him to the houses where ladies +were. But Silas's wife was not much regarded at Bartram-Haugh. + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page160" id="page160"></a>[pg 152]</span> + +Indeed, she was very little seen, for she was every evening tipsy +in her bedroom, poor woman!'</p> + +<p>'How miserable!' I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>'I don't think it troubled Silas very much, for she drank gin, +they said, poor thing, and the expense was not much; and, on +the whole, I really think he was glad she drank, for it kept her +out of his way, and was likely to kill her. At this time your poor +father, who was thoroughly disgusted at his marriage, had +stopped the supplies, you know, and Silas was very poor, and +as hungry as a hawk, and they said he pounced upon this rich +London gamester, intending to win his money. I am telling +you now all that was said afterwards. The races lasted I forget +how many days, and Mr. Charke stayed at Bartram-Haugh all +this time and for some days after. It was thought that poor Austin would +pay all Silas's gambling debts, and so this wretched +Mr. Charke made heavy wagers with him on the races, and they +played very deep, besides, at Bartram. He and Silas used to sit +up at night at cards. All these particulars, as I told you, came +out afterwards, for there was an inquest, you know, and then +Silas published what he called his "statement," and there was +a great deal of most distressing correspondence in the newspapers.'</p> + +<p>'And why did Mr. Charke kill himself?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Well, I will tell you first what all are agreed about. The +second night after the races, your uncle and Mr. Charke sat up +till between two and three o'clock in the morning, quite by +themselves, in the parlour. Mr. Charke's servant was at the Stag's +Head Inn at Feltram, and therefore could throw no light upon +what occurred at night at Bartram-Haugh; but he was there at +six o'clock in the morning, and very early at his master's door +by his direction. He had locked it, as was his habit, upon the +inside, and the key was in the lock, which turned out afterwards +a very important point. On knocking he found that he could +not awaken his master, because, as it appeared when the door +was forced open, his master was lying dead at his bedside, not +in a pool, but a perfect pond of blood, as they described it, with +his throat cut.'</p> + +<p>'How horrible!' cried I.</p> + +<p>'So it was. Your uncle Silas was called up, and greatly shocked +of course, and he did what I believe was best. He had everything + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161" id="page161"></a>[pg 153]</span> + +left as nearly as possible in the exact state in which it +had been found, and he sent his own servant forthwith for the +coroner, and, being himself a justice of the peace, he took the +depositions of Mr. Charke's servant while all the incidents were +still fresh in his memory.'</p> + +<p>'Could anything be more straightforward, more right and +wise?' I said.</p> + +<p>'Oh, nothing of course,' answered Lady Knollys, I thought +a little drily.</p> + +<a name="chap27"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXVII</h3> + +<h2><i>MORE ABOUT TOM CHARKE'S SUICIDE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>So the inquest was held, and Mr. Manwaring, of Wail Forest, +was the only juryman who seemed to entertain the idea during +the inquiry that Mr. Charke had died by any hand but his +own.</p> + +<p>'And how <i>could</i> he fancy such a thing?' I exclaimed indignantly.</p> + +<p>'Well, you will see the result was quite enough to justify +them in saying as they did, that he died by his own hand. The +window was found fastened with a screw on the inside, as it +had been when the chambermaid had arranged it at nine o'-clock; +no one could have entered through it. Besides, it was +on the third story, and the rooms are lofty, so it stood at a +great height from the ground, and there was no ladder long +enough to reach it. The house is built in the form of a hollow +square, and Mr. Charke's room looked into the narrow court-yard +within. There is but one door leading into this, and it +did not show any sign of having been open for years. The door +was locked upon the inside, and the key in the lock, so that +nobody could have made an entrance that way either, for it was +impossible, you see, to unlock the door from the outside.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page162" id="page162"></a>[pg 154]</span> + +<p>'And how could they affect to question anything so clear?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'There did come, nevertheless, a kind of mist over the subject, which gave +those who chose to talk unpleasantly an opportunity of insinuating +suspicions, though they could not themselves find the clue of the mystery. +In the first place, it appeared that he had gone to bed very tipsy, and +that he was heard singing and noisy in his room while getting to bed—not +the mood in which men make away with themselves. Then, although his own +razor was found in that dreadful blood (it is shocking to have to hear all +this) near his right hand, the fingers of his left were cut to the bone. +Then the memorandum book in which his bets were noted was nowhere to be +found. That, you know, +was very odd. His keys were there attached to a chain. He wore a great deal +of gold and trinkets. I saw him, wretched man, on the course. They had got +off their horses. He and your uncle were walking on the course.'</p> + +<p>'Did he look like a gentleman?' I inquired, as I dare say, other young +ladies would.</p> + +<p>'He looked like a Jew, my dear. He had a horrid brown coat with a velvet +cape, curling black hair over his collar, and great whiskers, very high +shoulders, and he was puffing a cigar straight up into the air. I was +shocked to see Silas in such company.'</p> + +<p>'And did his keys discover anything?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'On opening his travelling desk and a small japanned box within it a vast +deal less money was found than was expected—in fact, very little. Your +uncle said that he had won some of it the night before at play, and that +Charke complained to him when tipsy of having had severe losses to +counterbalance his gains on the races. Besides, he had been paid but a +small part of those gains. About his book it appeared that there were +little notes of bets on the backs of letters, and it was said that he +sometimes made no other memorandum of his wagers—but this was +disputed—and among those notes there was not one referring to Silas. But, +then, there was an omission of all allusion to his transactions with two +other well-known gentlemen. So that was +not singular.'</p> + +<p>'No, certainly; that was quite accounted for,' said I.</p> + +<p>'And then came the question,' continued she, 'what motive + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page163" id="page163"></a>[pg 155]</span> + +could Mr. Charke possibly have had for making away with +himself.'</p> + +<p>'But is not that very difficult to make out in many cases?' I +interposed.</p> + +<p>'It was said that he had some mysterious troubles in London, +at which he used to hint. Some people said that he really was +in a scrape, but others that there was no such thing, and that +when he talked so he was only jesting. There was no suspicion +during the inquest that your uncle Silas was involved, except +those questions of Mr. Manwaring's.'</p> + +<p>'What were they?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'I really forget; but they greatly offended your uncle, and +there was a little scene in the room. Mr. Manwaring seemed to +think that some one had somehow got into the room. Through +the door it could not be, nor down the chimney, for they found +an iron bar across the flue, near the top in the masonry. The +window looked into a court-yard no bigger than a ball-room. +They went down and examined it, but, though the ground beneath was moist, +they could not discover the slightest trace of +a footprint. So far as they could make out, Mr. Charke had +hermetically sealed himself into his room, and then cut his +throat with his own razor.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said I, 'for it was all secured—that is, the window and +the door—upon the inside, and no sign of any attempt to get +in.'</p> + +<p>'Just so; and when the walls were searched, and, as your +uncle Silas directed, the wainscoting removed, some months afterwards, +when the scandal grew loudest, then it was evident that +there was no concealed access to the room.'</p> + +<p>'So the answer to all those calumnies was simply that the +crime was impossible,' said I. 'How dreadful that such a slander +should have required an answer at all!'</p> + +<p>'It was an unpleasant affair even then, although I cannot say +that anyone supposed Silas guilty; but you know the whole +thing was disreputable, that Mr. Charke was a discreditable inmate, +the occurrence was horrible, and there was a glare of publicity which +brought into relief the scandals of Bartram-Haugh. +But in a little time it became, all on a sudden, a great deal +worse.'</p> + +<p>My cousin paused to recollect exactly.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page164" id="page164"></a>[pg 156]</span> + +<p>'There were very disagreeable whispers among the sporting +people in London. This person, Charke, had written two letters. +Yes—two. They were published about two months after, by the +villain to whom they were written; he wanted to extort money. +They were first talked of a great deal among that set in town; +but the moment they were published they produced a sensation +in the country, and a storm of newspaper commentary. The first +of these was of no great consequence, but the second was very +startling, embarrassing, and even alarming.'</p> + +<p>'What was it, Cousin Monica?' I whispered.</p> + +<p>'I can only tell you in a general way, it is so very long since +I read it; but both were written in the same kind of slang, +and parts as hard to understand as a prize fight. I hope you +never read those things.'</p> + +<p>I satisfied this sudden educational alarm, and Lady Knollys +proceeded.</p> + +<p>'I am afraid you hardly hear me, the wind makes such an +uproar. Well, listen. The letter said distinctly, that he, Mr. +Charke, had made a very profitable visit to Bartram-Haugh, and +mentioned in exact figures for how much he held your uncle +Silas's I.O.U.'s, for he could not pay him. I can't say what the +sum was. I only remember that it was quite frightful. It took +away my breath when I read it.'</p> + +<p>'Uncle Silas had lost it?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Yes, and owed it; and had given him those papers called +I.O.U.'s promising to pay, which, of course, Mr. Charke had +locked up with his money; and the insinuation was that Silas +had made away with him, to get rid of this debt, and that he had +also taken a great deal of his money.</p> + +<p>'I just recollect these points which were exactly what made +the impression,' continued Lady Knollys, after a short pause; +'the letter was written in the evening of the last day of the +wretched man's life, so that there had not been much time for +your uncle Silas to win back his money; and he stoutly alleged +that he did not owe Mr. Charke a guinea. It mentioned an +enormous sum as being actually owed by Silas; and it cautioned +the man, an agent, to whom he wrote, not to mention the circumstance, +as Silas could only pay by getting the money from +his wealthy brother, who would have the management; and he +distinctly said that he had kept the matter very close at Silas's + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page165" id="page165"></a>[pg 157]</span> + +request. That, you know, was a very awkward letter, and all +the worse that it was written in brutally high spirits, and not +at all like a man meditating an exit from the world. You can't +imagine what a sensation the publication of these letters produced. +In a moment the storm was up, and certainly Silas did +meet it bravely—yes, with great courage and ability. What a pity +he did not early enter upon some career of ambition! Well, well, +it is idle regretting. He suggested that the letters were forgeries. +He alleged that Charke was in the habit of boasting, and telling +enormous falsehoods about his gambling transactions, especially +in his letters. He reminded the world how often men affect high +animal spirits at the very moment of meditating suicide. He alluded, +in a manly and graceful way, to his family and their +character. He took a high and menacing tone with his adversaries, +and he insisted that what they dared to insinuate against +him was physically impossible.'</p> + +<p>I asked in what form this vindication appeared.</p> + +<p>'It was a letter, printed as a pamphlet; everybody admired +its ability, ingenuity, and force, and it was written with immense +rapidity.'</p> + +<p>'Was it at all in the style of his letters?' I innocently asked.</p> + +<p>My cousin laughed.</p> + +<p>'Oh, dear, no! Ever since he avowed himself a religious +character, he had written nothing but the most vapid and nerveless +twaddle. Your poor dear father used to send his letters to +me to read, and I sometimes really thought that Silas was losing +his faculties; but I believe he was only trying to write in character.'</p> + +<p>'I suppose the general feeling was in his favour?' I said.</p> + +<p>'I don't think it was, anywhere; but in his own county it was +certainly unanimously against him. There is no use in asking +why; but so it was, and I think it would have been easier for +him with his unaided strength to uproot the Peak than to change +the convictions of the Derbyshire gentlemen. They were all +against him. Of course there were predisposing causes. Your +uncle published a very bitter attack upon them, describing himself +as the victim of a political conspiracy: and I recollect he +mentioned that from the hour of the shocking catastrophe in his +house, he had forsworn the turf and all pursuits and amusements + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page166" id="page166"></a>[pg 158]</span> + +connected with it. People sneered, and said he might as well go +as wait to be kicked out.'</p> + +<p>'Were there law-suits about all this?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Everybody expected that there would, for there were very +savage things printed on both sides, and I think, too, that the +persons who thought worst of him expected that evidence would +yet turn up to convict Silas of the crime they chose to impute; +and so years have glided away, and many of the people who +remembered the tragedy of Bartram-Haugh, and took the strongest +part in the denunciation, and ostracism that followed, are +dead, and no new light had been thrown upon the occurrence, +and your uncle Silas remains an outcast. At first he was quite +wild with rage, and would have fought the whole county, man +by man, if they would have met him. But he had since changed +his habits and, as he says, his aspirations altogether.'</p> + +<p>'He has become religious.'</p> + +<p>'The only occupation remaining to him. He owes money; he +is poor; he is isolated; and he says, sick and religious. Your +poor father, who was very decided and inflexible, never helped +him beyond the limit he had prescribed, after Silas's <i>mésalliance</i>. +He wanted to get him into Parliament, and would have paid +his expenses, and made him an allowance; but either Silas had +grown lazy, or he understood his position better than poor Austin, +or he distrusted his powers, or possibly he really is in ill-health; +but he objected his religious scruples. Your poor papa +thought self-assertion possible, where an injured man has right to +rely upon, but he had been very long out of the world, and the +theory won't do. Nothing is harder than to get a person who has +once been effectually slurred, received again. Silas, I think, was +right. I don't think it was practicable.</p> + +<p>'Dear child, how late it is!' exclaimed Lady Knollys suddenly, +looking at the Louis Quatorze clock, that crowned the mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>It was near one o'clock. The storm had a little subsided, and +I took a less agitated and more confident view of Uncle Silas +than I had at an earlier hour of that evening.</p> + +<p>'And what do you think of him?' I asked.</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys drummed on the table with her finger points +as she looked into the fire.</p> + +<p>'I don't understand metaphysics, my dear, nor witchcraft. I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page167" id="page167"></a>[pg 159]</span> + +sometimes believe in the supernatural, and sometimes I don't. +Silas Ruthyn is himself alone, and I can't define him, because +I don't understand him. Perhaps other souls than human are +sometimes born into the world, and clothed in flesh. It is not only +about that dreadful occurrence, but nearly always throughout +his life; early and late he has puzzled me. I have tried in vain +to understand him. But at one time of his life I am sure he was +awfully wicked—eccentric indeed in his wickedness—gay, frivolous, +secret, and dangerous. At one time I think he could have +made poor Austin do almost anything; but his influence vanished +with his marriage, never to return again. No; I don't understand +him. He always bewildered me, like a shifting face, sometimes +smiling, but always sinister, in an unpleasant dream.'</p> + +<a name="chap28"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXVIII</h3> + +<h2><i>I AM PERSUADED</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>So now at last I had heard the story of Uncle Silas's mysterious +disgrace. We sat silent for a while, and I, gazing into vacancy, +sent him in a chariot of triumph, chapletted, ringed, and robed +through the city of imagination, crying after him, 'Innocent! +innocent! martyr and crowned!' All the virtues and honesties, +reason and conscience, in myriad shapes—tier above tier of human +faces—from the crowded pavement, crowded windows, +crowded roofs, joined in the jubilant acclamation, and trumpeters +trumpeted, and drums rolled, and great organs and choirs +through open cathedral gates, rolled anthems of praise and +thanksgiving, and the bells rang out, and cannons sounded, and +the air trembled with the roaring harmony; and Silas Ruthyn, +the full-length portrait, stood in the burnished chariot, with a +proud, sad, clouded face, that rejoiced not with the rejoicers, +and behind him the slave, thin as a ghost, white-faced, and +sneering something in his ear: while I and all the city went +on crying 'Innocent! innocent! martyr and crowned!' And now + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page168" id="page168"></a>[pg 160]</span> + +the reverie was ended; and there were only Lady Knollys' stern, +thoughtful face, with the pale light of sarcasm on it, and the +storm outside thundering and lamenting desolately.</p> + +<p>It was very good of Cousin Monica to stay with me so long. It +must have been unspeakably tiresome. And now she began to +talk of business at home, and plainly to prepare for immediate +flight, and my heart sank.</p> + +<p>I know that I could not then have defined my feelings and +agitations. I am not sure that I even now could. Any misgiving +about Uncle Silas was, in my mind, a questioning the foundations +of my faith, and in itself an impiety. And yet I am not sure +that some such misgiving, faint, perhaps, and intermittent, may +not have been at the bottom of my tribulation.</p> + +<p>I was not very well. Lady Knollys had gone out for a walk. +She was not easily tired, and sometimes made a long excursion. +The sun was setting now, when Mary Quince brought me a +letter which had just arrived by the post. My heart throbbed +violently. I was afraid to break the broad black seal. It was from +Uncle Silas. I ran over in my mind all the unpleasant mandates +which it might contain, to try and prepare myself for a shock. +At last I opened the letter. It directed me to hold myself in readiness +for the journey to Bartram-Haugh. It stated that I might +bring two maids with me if I wished so many, and that his next +letter would give me the details of my route, and the day of my +departure for Derbyshire; and he said that I ought to make arrangements +about Knowl during my absence, but that he was +hardly the person properly to be consulted on that matter. Then +came a prayer that he might be enabled to acquit himself of his +trust to the full satisfaction of his conscience, and that I might +enter upon my new relations in a spirit of prayer.</p> + +<p>I looked round my room, so long familiar, and now so endeared +by the idea of parting and change. The old house—dear, +dear Knowl, how could I leave you and all your affectionate associations, +and kind looks and voices, for a strange land!</p> + +<p>With a great sigh I took Uncle Silas's letter, and went down +stairs to the drawing-room. From the lobby window, where I +loitered for a few moments, I looked out upon the well-known +forest-trees. The sun was down. It was already twilight, and the +white vapours of coming night were already filming their thinned +and yellow foliage. Everything looked melancholy. How little did + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page169" id="page169"></a>[pg 161]</span> + +those who envied the young inheritrex of a princely fortune +suspect the load that lay at her heart, or, bating the fear of +death, how gladly at that moment she would have parted with +her life!</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys had not yet returned, and it was darkening +rapidly; a mass of black clouds stood piled in the west, through +the chasms of which was still reflected a pale metallic lustre.</p> + +<p>The drawing-room was already very dark; but some streaks of +this cold light fell upon a black figure, which would otherwise +have been unseen, leaning beside the curtains against the window +frame.</p> + +<p>It advanced abruptly, with creaking shoes; it was Doctor +Bryerly.</p> + +<p>I was startled and surprised, not knowing how he had got +there. I stood staring at him in the dusk rather awkwardly, I +am afraid.</p> + +<p>'How do you do, Miss Ruthyn?' said he, extending his hand, +long, hard, and brown as a mummy's, and stooping a little so as +to approach more nearly, for it was not easy to see in the imperfect +light. 'You're surprised, I dare say, to see me here so +soon again?'</p> + +<p>'I did not know you had arrived. I am glad to see you, +Doctor Bryerly. Nothing unpleasant, I hope, has happened?'</p> + +<p>'No, nothing unpleasant, Miss. The will has been lodged, and +we shall have probate in due course; but there has been something +on my mind, and I'm come to ask you two or three questions +which you had better answer very considerately. Is Miss +Knollys still here?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, but she is not returned from her walk.'</p> + +<p>'I am glad she is here. I think she takes a sound view, and +women understand one another better. As for me, it is plainly +my duty to put it before you as it strikes me, and to offer all I +can do in accomplishing, should you wish it, a different arrangement. +You don't know your uncle, you said the other day?'</p> + +<p>'No, I've never seen him.'</p> + +<p>'You understand your late father's intention in making you +his ward?'</p> + +<p>'I suppose he wished to show his high opinion of my uncle's +fitness for such a trust.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page170" id="page170"></a>[pg 162]</span> + +<p>'That's quite true; but the nature of the trust in this instance +is extraordinary.'</p> + +<p>'I don't understand.'</p> + +<p>'Why, if you die before you come to the age of twenty-one, +the entire of the property will go to him—do you see?—and +he has the custody of your person in the meantime; you are to +live in his house, under his care and authority. You see now, I +think, how it is; and I did not like it when your father read +the will to me, and I said so. Do <i>you</i>?'</p> + +<p>I hesitated to speak, not sure that I quite comprehended him.</p> + +<p>'And the more I think of it, the less I like it, Miss,' said Doctor +Bryerly, in a calm, stern tone.</p> + +<p>'Merciful Heaven! Doctor Bryerly, you can't suppose that +I should not be as safe in my uncle's house as in the Lord Chancellor's?' +I ejaculated, looking full in his face.</p> + +<p>'But don't you see, Miss, it is not a fair position to put +your uncle in,' replied he, after a little hesitation.</p> + +<p>'But suppose <i>he</i> does not think so. You know, if he does, he +may decline it.'</p> + +<p>'Well that's true—but he won't. Here is his letter'—and he +produced it—'announcing officially that he means to accept the +office; but I think he ought to be told it is not <i>delicate</i>, under +all circumstances. You know, Miss, that your uncle, Mr. Silas +Ruthyn, was talked about unpleasantly once.'</p> + +<p>'You mean'—I began.</p> + +<p>'I mean about the death of Mr. Charke, at Bartram-Haugh.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, I have heard that,' I said; he was speaking with a +shocking <i>aplomb</i>.</p> + +<p>'We assume, of course, <i>unjustly</i>; but there are many who +think quite differently.'</p> + +<p>'And possibly, Doctor Bryerly, it was for that very reason that +my dear papa made him my guardian.'</p> + +<p>'There can be no doubt of that, Miss; it was to purge him +of that scandal.'</p> + +<p>'And when he has acquitted himself honourably of that trust, +don't you think such a proof of confidence so honourably fulfilled +must go far to silence his traducers?'</p> + +<p>'Why, if all goes well, it may do a little; but a great deal less +than you fancy. But take it that you happen to <i>die</i>, Miss, during +your minority. We are all mortal, and there are three years and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page171" id="page171"></a>[pg 163]</span> + +some months to go; how will it be then? Don't you see? Just +fancy how people will talk.'</p> + +<p>'I think you know that my uncle is a religious man?' said +I.</p> + +<p>'Well, Miss, what of that?' he asked again.</p> + +<p>'He is—he has suffered intensely,' I continued. 'He has long +retired from the world; he is very religious. Ask our curate, +Mr. Fairfield, if you doubt it.'</p> + +<p>'But I am not disputing it, Miss; I'm only supposing what +may happen—an accident, we'll call it small-pox, diphtheria, +<i>that's</i> going very much. Three years and three months, you know, +is a long time. You proceed to Bartram-Haugh, thinking you +have much goods laid up for many years; but your Creator, you +know, may say, "Thou fool, this day is thy soul required of thee." +You go—and what pray is thought of your uncle, Mr. Silas +Ruthyn, who walks in for the entire inheritance, and who has +long been abused like a pickpocket, or worse, in his own county, +I'm told?'</p> + +<p>'You are a religious man, Doctor Bryerly, according to your +lights?' I said.</p> + +<p>The Swedenborgian smiled.</p> + +<p>'Well, knowing that he is so too, and having yourself experienced +the power of religion, do not you think him deserving of +every confidence? Don't you think it well that he should have +this opportunity of exhibiting both his own character and the +reliance which my dear papa reposed on it, and that we should +leave all consequences and contingencies in the hands of Heaven?'</p> + +<p>'It appears to have been the will of Heaven hitherto,' said +Doctor Bryerly—I could not see with what expression of face, +but he was looking down, and drawing little diagrams with +his stick on the dark carpet, and spoke in a very low tone—'that +your uncle should suffer under this ill report. In countervailing +the appointment of Providence, we must employ our +reason, with conscientious diligence, as to the means, and if we +find that they are as likely to do mischief as good, we have no +right to expect a special interposition to turn our experiment +into an ordeal. I think you ought to weigh it well—I am sure +there are reasons against it. If you make up your mind that you +would rather be placed under the care, say of Lady Knollys, I +will endeavour all I can to effect it.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page172" id="page172"></a>[pg 164]</span> + +<p>'That could not be done without his consent, could it?' +said I.</p> + +<p>'No, but I don't despair of getting that—on terms, of course,' +remarked he.</p> + +<p>'I don't quite understand,' I said.</p> + +<p>'I mean, for instance, if he were allowed to keep the allowance +for your maintenance—eh?'</p> + +<p>'I mistake my uncle Silas very much,' I said, 'if that allowance +is any object whatever to him compared with the moral +value of the position. If he were deprived of that, I am sure +he would decline the other.'</p> + +<p>'We might try him at all events,' said Doctor Bryerly, on +whose dark sinewy features, even in this imperfect light, I +thought I detected a smile.</p> + +<p>'Perhaps,' said I, 'I appear very foolish in supposing him +actuated by any but sordid motives; but he is my near relation, +and I can't help it, sir.'</p> + +<p>'That is a very serious thing, Miss Ruthyn,' he replied. 'You +are very young, and cannot see it at present, as you will hereafter. +He is very religious, you say, and all that, but his house is not a +proper place for you. It is a solitude—its master an outcast, and +it has been the repeated scene of all sorts of scandals, and of one +great crime; and Lady Knollys thinks your having been domesticated +there will be an injury to you all the days of your life.'</p> + +<p>'So I do, Maud,' said Lady Knollys, who had just entered the +room unperceived,—'How do you do, Doctor Bryerly?—a serious +injury. You have no idea how entirely that house is condemned +and avoided, and the very name of its inmates tabooed.'</p> + +<p>'How monstrous—how cruel!' I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>'Very unpleasant, my dear, but perfectly natural. You are to +recollect that quite independently of the story of Mr. Charke, +the house was talked about, and the county people had cut your +uncle Silas long before that adventure was dreamed of; and as to +the circumstance of your being placed in his charge by his +brother, who took, from strong family feeling, a totally one-sided +view of the affair from the first, having the slightest effect in +restoring his position in the county, you must quite give that up. +Except me, if he will allow me, and the clergyman, not a soul +in the country will visit at Bartram-Haugh. They may pity you, +and think the whole thing the climax of folly and cruelty; but + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173" id="page173"></a>[pg 165]</span> + +they won't visit at Bartram, or know Silas, or have anything to +do with his household.'</p> + +<p>'They will see, at all events, what my dear papa's opinion +was.'</p> + +<p>'They know that already,' answered she, 'and it has not, and +ought not to have, the slightest weight with them. There are +people there who think themselves just as great as the Ruthyns, +or greater; and your poor father's idea of carrying it by a +demonstration was simply the dream of a man who had forgotten +the world, and learned to exaggerate himself in his long +seclusion. I know he was beginning himself to hesitate; and I think +if he had been spared another year that provision of his will +would have been struck out.'</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly nodded, and he said—</p> + +<p>'And if he had the power to dictate <i>now</i>, would he insist on +that direction? It is a mistake every way, injurious to you, his +child; and should you happen to die during your sojourn under +your uncle's care, it would woefully defeat the testator's +object, and raise such a storm of surmise and inquiry as would +awaken all England, and send the old scandal on the wing +through the world again.'</p> + +<p>'Doctor Bryerly will, I have no doubt, arrange it all. In fact, +I do not think it would be very difficult to bring Silas to terms; +and if you do not consent to his trying, Maud, mark my words, +you will live to repent it.'</p> + +<p>Here were two persons viewing the question from totally +different points; both perfectly disinterested; both in their +different ways, I believe, shrewd and even wise; and both +honourable, urging me against it, and in a way that undefinably +alarmed my imagination, as well as moved my reason. I looked +from one to the other—there was a silence. By this time the +candles had come, and we could see one another.</p> + +<p>'I only wait your decision, Miss Ruthyn,' said the trustee, +'to see your uncle. If his advantage was the chief object +contemplated in this arrangement, he will be the best judge whether +his interest is really best consulted by it or no; and I think +he will clearly see that it is <i>not</i> so, and will answer accordingly.'</p> + +<p>'I cannot answer now—you must allow me to think it over—I +will do my best. I am very much obliged, my dear Cousin +Monica, you are so very good, and you too, Doctor Bryerly.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page174" id="page174"></a>[pg 166]</span> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly by this time was looking into his pocket-book, +and did not acknowledge my thanks even by a nod.</p> + +<p>'I must be in London the day after to-morrow. Bartram-Haugh +is nearly sixty miles from here, and only twenty of that +by rail, I find. Forty miles of posting over those Derbyshire +mountains is slow work; but if you say <i>try</i>, I'll see him to-morrow +morning.'</p> + +<p>'You must say try—you <i>must</i>, my dear Maud.'</p> + +<p>'But how can I decide in a moment? Oh, dear Cousin +Monica, I am so distracted!'</p> + +<p>'But <i>you</i> need not decide at all; the decision rests with <i>him</i>. +Come; he is more competent than you. You <i>must</i> say yes.'</p> + +<p>Again I looked from her to Doctor Bryerly, and from him to +her again. I threw my arms about her neck, and hugging her +closely to me, I cried—</p> + +<p>'Oh, Cousin Monica, dear Cousin Monica, advise me. I am +a wretched creature. You must advise me.'</p> + +<p>I did not know till now how irresolute a character was mine.</p> + +<p>I knew somehow by the tone of her voice that she was +smiling as she answered—</p> + +<p>'Why, dear, I have advised you; I <i>do</i> advise you;' and then +she added, impetuously, 'I entreat and implore, if you really +think I love you, that you will <i>follow</i> my advice. It is your duty +to leave your uncle Silas, whom you believe to be more competent +than you are, to decide, after full conference with Doctor +Bryerly, who knows more of your poor father's views and intentions +in making that appointment than either you or I.'</p> + +<p>'Shall I say, yes?' I cried, drawing her close, and kissing her +helplessly. 'Oh, tell me—tell me to say, yes.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, of course, <i>yes</i>. She agrees, Doctor Bryerly, to your kind +proposal.'</p> + +<p>'I am to understand so?' he asked.</p> + +<p>'Very well—yes, Doctor Bryerly,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'You have resolved wisely and well,' said he, briskly, like a +man who has got a care off his mind.</p> + +<p>'I forgot to say, Doctor Bryerly—it was very rude—that you +must stay here to-night.'</p> + +<p>'He <i>can't</i>, my dear,' interposed Lady Knolly's; 'it is a long +way.'</p> + +<p>'He will dine. Won't you, Doctor Bryerly?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page175" id="page175"></a>[pg 167]</span> + +<p>'No; he can't. You know you can't, sir,' said my cousin, +peremptorily. 'You must not worry him, my dear, with civilities +he can't accept. He'll bid us good-bye this moment. Good-bye, +Doctor Bryerly. You'll write immediately; don't wait till you +reach town. Bid him good-bye, Maud. I'll say a word to you in +the hall.'</p> + +<p>And thus she literally hurried him out of the room, leaving +me in a state of amazement and confusion, not able to review my +decision—unsatisfied, but still unable to recall it.</p> + +<p>I stood where they had left me, looking after them, I suppose, +like a fool.</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys returned in a few minutes. If I had been a little +cooler I was shrewd enough to perceive that she had sent poor +Doctor Bryerly away upon his travels, to find board and lodging +half-way to Bartram, to remove him forthwith from my presence, +and thus to make my decision—if mine it was—irrevocable.</p> + +<p>'I applaud you, my dear,' said Cousin Knollys, in her turn +embracing me heartily. 'You are a sensible little darling, and +have done exactly what you ought to have done.'</p> + +<p>'I hope I have,' I faltered.</p> + +<p>'Hope? fiddle! stuff! the thing's as plain as a pikestaff.'</p> + +<p>And in came Branston to say that dinner was served.</p> + +<a name="chap29"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXIX</h3> + +<h2><i>HOW THE AMBASSADOR FARED</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Lady Knollys, I could plainly see, when we got into the +brighter lights at the dinner table, was herself a good deal +excited; she was relieved and glad, and was garrulous during +our meal, and told me all her early recollections of dear papa. +Most of them I had heard before; but they could not be told +too often.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding my mind sometimes wandered, <i>often</i> indeed, +to the conference so unexpected, so suddenly decisive, possibly so + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page176" id="page176"></a>[pg 168]</span> + +momentous; and with a dismayed uncertainly, the question—had +I done right?—was always before me.</p> + +<p>I dare say my cousin understood my character better, perhaps, +after all my honest self-study, then I do even now. Irresolute, +suddenly reversing my own decisions, impetuous in action as +she knew me, she feared, I am sure, a revocation of my commission +to Doctor Bryerly, and thought of the countermand I might +send galloping after him.</p> + +<p>So, kind creature, she laboured to occupy my thoughts, and +when one theme was exhausted found another, and had always +her parry prepared as often as I directed a reflection or an +enquiry to the re-opening of the question which she had taken +so much pains to close.</p> + +<p>That night I was troubled. I was already upbraiding myself. +I could not sleep, and at last sat up in bed, and cried. I lamented +my weakness in having assented to Doctor Bryerly's and +my cousin's advice. Was I not departing from my engagement +to my dear papa? Was I not consenting that my Uncle Silas +should be induced to second my breach of faith by a corresponding +perfidy?</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys had done wisely in despatching Doctor Bryerly +so promptly; for, most assuredly, had he been at Knowl next +morning when I came down I should have recalled my commission.</p> + +<p>That day in the study I found four papers which increased +my perturbation. They were in dear papa's handwriting, and +had an indorsement in these words—'Copy of my letter addressed +to ——, one of the trustees named in my will.' Here, +then, were the contents of those four sealed letters which had +excited mine and Lady Knollys' curiosity on the agitating day +on which the will was read.</p> + +<p>It contained these words:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'I name my oppressed and unhappy brother, Silas Ruthyn, +residing at my house of Bartram-Haugh, as guardian of the +person of my beloved child, to convince the world if possible, +and failing that, to satisfy at least all future generations of our +family, that his brother, who knew him best, had implicit confidence +in him, and that he deserved it. A cowardly and preposterous +slander, originating in political malice, and which + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page177" id="page177"></a>[pg 169]</span> + +never have been whispered had he not been poor and +imprudent, is best silenced by this ordeal of purification. All +I possess goes to him if my child dies under age; and the +custody of her person I commit meanwhile to him alone, knowing +that she is as safe in his as she could have been under my +own care. I rely upon your remembrance of our early friendship +to make this known wherever an opportunity occurs, and also +to say what your sense of justice may warrant.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>The other letters were in the same spirit. My heart sank like +lead as I read them. I quaked with fear. What had I done? +My father's wise and noble vindication of our dishonoured name +I had presumed to frustrate. I had, like a coward, receded from +my easy share in the task; and, merciful Heaven, I had broken +my faith with the dead!</p> + +<p>With these letters in my hand, white with fear, I flew like a +shadow to the drawing-room where Cousin Monica was, and +told her to read them. I saw by her countenance how much +alarmed she was by my looks, but she said nothing, only read +the letters hurriedly, and then exclaimed—</p> + +<p>'Is this all, my dear child? I really fancied you had found a +second will, and had lost everything. Why, my dearest Maud, +we knew all this before. We quite understood poor dear Austin's +motive. Why are you so easily disturbed?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Cousin Monica, I think he was right; it all seems quite +reasonable now; and I—oh, what a crime!—it must be stopped.'</p> + +<p>'My dear Maud, listen to reason. Doctor Bryerly has seen +your uncle at Bartram at least two hours ago. You <i>can't</i> stop it, +and why on earth should you if you could? Don't you think +your uncle should be consulted?' said she.</p> + +<p>'But he has <i>decided</i>. I have his letter speaking of it as settled; +and Doctor Bryerly—oh, Cousin Monica, he's gone <i>to tempt +him</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Nonsense, girl! Doctor Bryerly is a good and just man, I do +believe, and has, beside, no imaginable motive to pervert either +his conscience or his judgment. He's not gone to tempt him—stuff!—but +to unfold the facts and invite his consideration; +and I say, considering how thoughtlessly such duties are often +undertaken, and how long Silas has been living in lazy solitude, +shut out from the world, and unused to discuss anything, I do + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178" id="page178"></a>[pg 170]</span> + +think it only conscientious and honourable that he should have +a fair and distinct view of the matter in all its bearings submitted +to him before he indolently incurs what may prove the +worst danger he was ever involved in.'</p> + +<p>So Lady Knollys argued, with feminine energy, and I must +confess, with a good deal of the repetition which I have sometimes +observed in logicians of my own sex, and she puzzled +without satisfying me.</p> + +<p>'I don't know why I went to that room,' I said, quite frightened; +'or why I went to that press; how it happened that these +papers, which we never saw there before, were the first things to +strike my eye to-day.'</p> + +<p>'What do you mean, dear?' said Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'I mean this—I think I was <i>brought</i> there, and that <i>there</i> is +poor papa's appeal to me, as plain as if his hand came and wrote +it upon the wall.' I nearly screamed the conclusion of this wild +confession.</p> + +<p>'You are nervous, my darling; your bad nights have worn +you out. Let us go out; the air will do you good; and I do assure +you that you will very soon see that we are quite right, and +rejoice conscientiously that you have acted as you did.'</p> + +<p>But I was not to be satisfied, although my first vehemence +was quieted. In my prayers that night my conscience upbraided +me. When I lay down in bed my nervousness returned fourfold. +Everybody at all nervously excitable has suffered some time +or another by the appearance of ghastly features presenting +themselves in every variety of contortion, one after another, the +moment the eyes are closed. This night my dear father's face +troubled me—sometimes white and sharp as ivory, sometimes +strangely transparent like glass, sometimes all hanging in cadaverous +folds, always with the same unnatural expression of diabolical +fury.</p> + +<p>From this dreadful vision I could only escape by sitting up +and staring at the light. At length, worn out, I dropped asleep, +and in a dream I distinctly heard papa's voice say sharply outside +the bed-curtain:—'Maud, we shall be late at Bartram-Haugh.'</p> + +<p>And I awoke in a horror, the wall, as it seemed, still ringing +with the summons, and the speaker, I fancied, standing at the +other side of the curtain.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page179" id="page179"></a>[pg 171]</span> + +<p>A miserable night I passed. In the morning, looking myself +like a ghost, I stood in my night-dress by Lady Knollys' bed.</p> + +<p>'I have had my warning,' I said. 'Oh, Cousin Monica, papa +has been with me, and ordered me to Bartram-Haugh; and go +I will.'</p> + +<p>She stared in my face uncomfortably, and then tried to laugh +the matter off; but I know she was troubled at the strange state +to which agitation and suspense had reduced me.</p> + +<p>'You're taking too much for granted, Maud,' said she; 'Silas +Ruthyn, most likely, will refuse his consent, and insist on your +going to Bartram-Haugh.'</p> + +<p>'Heaven grant!' I exclaimed; 'but if he doesn't, it is all the +same to me, go I will. He may turn me out, but I'll go, and try +to expiate the breach of faith that I fear is so horribly wicked.'</p> + +<p>We had several hours still to wait for the arrival of the post. +For both of us the delay was a suspense; for me an almost agonising +one. At length, at an unlooked-for moment, Branston did +enter the room with the post-bag. There was a large letter, with +the Feltram post-mark, addressed to Lady Knollys—it was Doctor +Bryerly's despatch; we read it together. It was dated on the day +before, and its purport was thus:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'R<small>ESPECTED</small> M<small>ADAM</small>,—I this day saw Mr. Silas Ruthyn at +Bartram-Haugh, and he peremptorily refuses, on any terms, to +vacate the guardianship, or to consent to Miss Ruthyn's residing +anywhere but under his own immediate care. As he bases his +refusal, first upon a conscientious difficulty, declaring that he +has no right, through fear of personal contingencies, to abdicate +an office imposed in so solemn a way, and so naturally devolving +on him as only brother to the deceased; and secondly upon +the effect such a withdrawal, at the instance of the acting trustee, +would have upon his own character, amounting to a public +self-condemnation; and as he refused to discuss these positions +with me, I could make no way whatsoever with him. Finding, +therefore, that his mind was quite made up, after a short time +I took my leave. He mentioned that preparations for his niece's +reception are being completed, and that he will send for her in +a few days; so that I think it will be advisable that I should go +down to Knowl, to assist Miss Ruthyn with any advice she may +require before her departure, to discharge servants, get inventories + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page180" id="page180"></a>[pg 172]</span> + +made, and provide for the care of the place and grounds +during her minority.</p> + +<p class="closer">'I am, respected Madam, yours truly,</p> + +<p class="signature">H<small>ANS</small> E. B<small>RYERLY</small>.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I can't describe to you how chapfallen and angry my cousin +looked. She sniffed once or twice, and then said, rather bitterly, +in a subdued tone:—</p> + +<p>'Well, <i>now</i>; I hope you are pleased?'</p> + +<p>'No, no, no; you <i>know</i> I'm not—grieved to the heart, my +only friend, my dear Cousin Monica; but my conscience is at +rest; you don't know what a sacrifice it is; I am a most unhappy +creature. I feel an indescribable foreboding. I am frightened; +but you won't forsake me, Cousin Monica.'</p> + +<p>'No, darling, never,' she said, sadly.</p> + +<p>'And you'll come and see me, won't you, as often as you +can?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, dear; that is if Silas allows me; and I'm sure he will,' +she added hastily, seeing, I suppose, my terror in my face. 'All +I can do, you may be sure I will, and perhaps he will allow you +to come to me, now and then, for a short visit. You know I am +only six miles away—little more than half an hour's drive, +and though I hate Bartram, and detest Silas—Yes, I <i>detest Silas</i>,' +she repeated in reply to my surprised gaze—'I <i>will</i> call at +Bartram—that is, I say, if he allows me; for, you know, I haven't +been there for a quarter of a century; and though I never understood +Silas, I fancy he forgives no sins, whether of omission +or commission.'</p> + +<p>I wondered what old grudge could make my cousin judge +Uncle Silas always so hardly—I could not suppose it was justice. +I had seen my hero indeed lately so disrespectfully handled +before my eyes, that he had, as idols will, lost something of his +sacredness. But as an article of faith, I still cultivated my trust +in his divinity, and dismissed every intruding doubt with an +exorcism, as a suggestion of the evil one. But I wronged Lady +Knollys in suspecting her of pique, or malice, or anything more +than that tendency to take strong views which some persons +attribute to my sex.</p> + +<p>So, then, the little project of Cousin Monica's guardianship, +which, had it been poor papa's wish, would have made me so + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page181" id="page181"></a>[pg 173]</span> + +very happy, was quite knocked on the head, to revive no more. I +comforted myself, however, with her promise to re-open communications +with Bartram-Haugh, and we grew resigned.</p> + +<p>I remember, next morning, as we sat at a very late breakfast, +Lady Knollys, reading a letter, suddenly made an exclamation +and a little laugh, and read on with increased interest +for a few minutes, and then, with another little laugh, she +looked up, placing her hand, with the open letter in it, beside +her tea-cup.</p> + +<p>'You'll not guess whom I've been reading about,' said she, +with her head the least thing on one side, and an arch smile.</p> + +<p>I felt myself blushing—cheeks, forehead, even down to the tips +of my fingers. I anticipated the name I was to hear. She looked +very much amused. Was it possible that Captain Oakley was +married?</p> + +<p>'I really have not the least idea,' I replied, with that kind of +overdone carelessness which betrays us.</p> + +<p>'No, I see quite plainly you have not; but you can't think +how prettily you blush,' answered she, very much diverted.</p> + +<p>'I really don't care,' I replied, with some little dignity, and +blushing deeper and deeper.</p> + +<p>'Will you make a guess?' she asked.</p> + +<p>'I <i>can't</i> guess.'</p> + +<p>'Well, shall I tell you?'</p> + +<p>'Just as you please.'</p> + +<p>'Well, I will—that is, I'll read a page of my letter, which tells +it all. Do you know Georgina Fanshawe?' she asked.</p> + +<p>'Lady Georgina? No.'</p> + +<p>'Well, no matter; she's in Paris now, and this letter is from +her, and she says—let me see the place—"Yesterday, what do you +think?—quite an apparition!—you shall hear. My brother +Craven yesterday insisted on my accompanying him to Le Bas' +shop in that odd little antique street near the Grève; it is a +wonderful old curiosity shop. I forget what they call them here. +When we went into this place it was very nearly deserted, and +there were so many curious things to look at all about, that for +a minute or two I did not observe a tall woman, in a grey silk +and a black velvet mantle, and quite a nice new Parisian bonnet. +You will be <i>charmed</i>, by-the-by, with the new shape—it is +only out three weeks, and is quite <i>indescribably</i> elegant, <i>I</i> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page182" id="page182"></a>[pg 174]</span> + +think, at least. They have them, I am sure, by this time at Molnitz's, +so I need say no more. And now that I am on this subject +of dress, I have got your lace; and I think you will be very ungrateful +if you are not <i>charmed</i> with it." Well, I need not read +all that—here is the rest;' and she read—</p> + +<p>'"But you'll ask about my mysterious <i>dame</i> in the new bonnet +and velvet mantle; she was sitting on a stool at the counter, +not buying, but evidently selling a quantity of stones and trinkets +which she had in a card-box, and the man was picking them +up one by one, and, I suppose, valuing them. I was near enough +to see such a darling little pearl cross, with at least half a dozen +really good pearls in it, and had begun to covet them for my +set, when the lady glanced over my shoulder, and she knew me—in +fact, we knew one another—and who do you think she was? +Well—you'll not guess in a week, and I can't wait so long; so +I may as well tell you at once—she was that horrid old Mademoiselle +Blassemare whom you pointed out to me at Elverston; +and I never forgot her face since—nor she, it seems, mine, for +she turned away very quickly, and when I next saw her, her +veil was down."'</p> + +<p>'Did not you tell me, Maud, that you had lost your pearl +cross while that dreadful Madame de la Rougierre was here?'</p> + +<p>'Yes; but—'</p> + +<p>'I know; but what has she to do with Mademoiselle de Blassemare, +you were going to say—they are one and the same person.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, I perceive,' answered I, with that dim sense of danger +and dismay with which one hears suddenly of an enemy of whom +one has lost sight for a time.</p> + +<p>'I'll write and tell Georgie to buy that cross. I wager my life +it is yours,' said Lady Knollys, firmly.</p> + +<p>The servants, indeed, made no secret of their opinion of +Madame de la Rougierre, and frankly charged her with a long +list of larcenies. Even Anne Wixted, who had enjoyed her barren +favour while the gouvernante was here, hinted privately that +she had bartered a missing piece of lace belonging to me with a +gipsy pedlar, for French gloves and an Irish poplin.</p> + +<p>'And so surely as I find it is yours, I'll set the police in pursuit.'</p> + +<p>'But you must not bring me into court,' said I, half amused +and half alarmed.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page183" id="page183"></a>[pg 175]</span> + +<p>'No occasion, my dear; Mary Quince and Mrs. Rusk can +prove it perfectly.'</p> + +<p>'And why do you dislike her so very much?' I asked.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica leaned back in her chair, and searched the +cornice from corner to corner with upturned eyes for the reason, +and at last laughed a little, amused at herself.</p> + +<p>'Well, really, it is not easy to define, and, perhaps, it is not +quite charitable; but I know I hate her, and I know, you little +hypocrite, you hate her as much as I;' and we both laughed a +little.</p> + +<p>'But you must tell me all you know of her history.'</p> + +<p>'Her history?' echoed she. 'I really know next to nothing +about it; only that I used to see her sometimes about the place +that Georgina mentions, and there were some unpleasant things +said about her; but you know they may be all lies. The worst +I <i>know</i> of her is her treatment of you, and her robbing the +desk'—(Cousin Monica always called it her <i>robbery</i>)—'and I +think that's enough to hang her. Suppose we go out for a walk?'</p> + +<p>So together we went, and I resumed about Madame; but no +more could I extract—perhaps there was not much more to hear.</p> + +<a name="chap30"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXX</h3> + +<h2><i>ON THE ROAD</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>All at Knowl was indicative of the break-up that was so near +at hand. Doctor Bryerly arrived according to promise. He was +in a whirl of business all the time. He and Mr. Danvers conferred +about the management of the estate. It was agreed that +the grounds and gardens should be let, but not the house, of +which Mrs. Rusk was to take the care. The gamekeeper remained +in office, and some out-door servants. But the rest were +to go, except Mary Quince, who was to accompany me to Bartram-Haugh +as my maid.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page184" id="page184"></a>[pg 176]</span> + +<p>'Don't part with Quince,' said Lady Knollys, peremptorily +'they'll want you, but <i>don't</i>.'</p> + +<p>She kept harping on this point, and recurred to it half a +dozen times every day.</p> + +<p>'They'll say, you know, that she is not fit for a lady's maid, +as she certainly is <i>not</i>, if it in the least signified in such a +wilderness +as Bartram-Haugh; but she is attached, trustworthy, and +honest; and those are qualities valuable everywhere, especially +in a solitude. Don't allow them to get you a wicked young +French milliner in her stead.'</p> + +<p>Sometimes she said things that jarred unpleasantly on my +nerves, and left an undefined sense of danger. Such as:—</p> + +<p>'I know she's true to you, and a good creature; but is she +shrewd enough?'</p> + +<p>Or, with an anxious look:—</p> + +<p>'I hope Mary Quince is not easily frightened.'</p> + +<p>Or, suddenly:—</p> + +<p>'Can Mary Quince write, in case you were ill?'</p> + +<p>Or,</p> + +<p>'Can she take a message exactly?'</p> + +<p>Or,</p> + +<p>'Is she a person of any enterprise and resource, and cool in +an emergency?'</p> + +<p>Now, these questions did not come all in a string, as I write +them down here, but at long intervals, and were followed +quickly by ordinary talk; but they generally escaped from my +companion after silence and gloomy thought; and though I +could extract nothing more defined than these questions, yet +they seemed to me to point at some possible danger contemplated +in my good cousin's dismal ruminations.</p> + +<p>Another topic that occupied my cousin's mind a good deal +was obviously the larceny of my pearl cross. She made a note of +the description furnished by the recollection, respectively, of +Mary Quince, Mrs. Rusk, and myself. I had fancied her little +vision of the police was no more than the result of a momentary +impulse; but really, to judge by her methodical examinations of us, +I should have fancied that she had taken it up in +downright earnest.</p> + +<p>Having learned that my departure from Knowl was to be +so very soon, she resolved not to leave me before the day of my + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page185" id="page185"></a>[pg 177]</span> + +journey to Bartram-Haugh; and as day after day passed by, +and the hour of our leave-taking approached, she became more +and more kind and affectionate. A feverish and sorrowful interval +it was to me.</p> + +<p>Of Doctor Bryerly, though staying in the house, we saw almost +nothing, except for an hour or so at tea-time. He breakfasted +very early, and dined solitarily, and at uncertain hours, +as business permitted.</p> + +<p>The second evening of his visit, Cousin Monica took occasion +to introduce the subject of his visit to Bartram-Haugh.</p> + +<p>'You saw him, of course?' said Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'Yes, he saw me; he was not well. On hearing who I was, +he asked me to go to his room, where he sat in a silk dressing-gown +and slippers.'</p> + +<p>'About business principally,' said Cousin Monica, laconically.</p> + +<p>'That was despatched in very few words; for he was quite +resolved, and placed his refusal upon grounds which it was +difficult to dispute. But difficult or no, mind you, he intimated +that he would hear nothing more on the subject—so that was +closed.'</p> + +<p>'Well; and what is his religion now?' inquired she, irreverently.</p> + +<p>'We had some interesting conversation on the subject. He +leans much to what we call the doctrine of correspondents. He +is read rather deeply in the writings of Swedenborg, and seemed +anxious to discuss some points with one who professes to be his +follower. To say truth, I did not expect to find him either so +well read or so deeply interested in the subject.'</p> + +<p>'Was he angry when it was proposed that he should vacate +the guardianship?'</p> + +<p>'Not at all. Contrariwise, he said he had at first been so +minded himself. His years, his habits, and something of the unfitness +of the situation, the remoteness of Bartram-Haugh from +good teachers, and all that, had struck him, and nearly determined +him against accepting the office. But then came the +views which I stated in my letter, and they governed him; and +nothing could shake them, he said, or induce him to re-open +the question in his own mind.'</p> + +<p>All the time Doctor Bryerly was relating his conference with +the head of the family at Bartram-Haugh my cousin commented + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page186" id="page186"></a>[pg 178]</span> + +on the narrative with a variety of little 'pishes' and sneers, +which I thought showed more of vexation than contempt.</p> + +<p>I was glad to hear all that Doctor Bryerly related. It gave me +a kind of confidence; and I experienced a momentary reaction. +After all, could Bartram-Haugh be more lonely than I had +found Knowl? Was I not sure of the society of my Cousin +Millicent, who was about my own age? Was it not quite possible +that my sojourn in Derbyshire might turn out a happy though +very quiet remembrance through all my after-life? Why should +it not? What time or place would be happy if we gave ourselves +over to dismal imaginations?</p> + +<p>So the summons reached me from Uncle Silas. The hours at +Knowl were numbered.</p> + +<p>The evening before I departed I visited the full-length portrait +of Uncle Silas, and studied it for the last time carefully, +with deep interest, for many minutes; but with results vaguer +than ever.</p> + +<p>With a brother so generous and so wealthy, always ready to +help him forward; with his talents; with his lithe and gorgeous +beauty, the shadow of which hung on that canvas—what might +he not have accomplished? whom might he not have captivated? +And yet where and what was he? A poor and shunned +old man, occupying a lonely house and place that did not belong +to him, married to degradation, with a few years of suspected +and solitary life before him, and then swift oblivion his best +portion.</p> + +<p>I gazed on the picture, to fix it well and vividly in my remembrance. +I might still trace some of its outlines and tints in +its living original, whom I was next day to see for the first time +in my life.</p> + +<p>So the morning came—my last for many a day at Knowl—a +day of partings, a day of novelty and regrets. The travelling +carriage and post horses were at the door. Cousin Monica's +carriage had just carried her away to the railway. We had embraced +with tears; and her kind face was still before me, and +her words of comfort and promise in my ears. The early sharpness +of morning was still in the air; the frosty dew still glistened +on the window-panes. We had made a hasty breakfast, my share +of which was a single cup of tea. The aspect of the house how +strange! Uncarpeted, uninhabited, doors for the most part + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page187" id="page187"></a>[pg 179]</span> + +locked, all the servants but Mrs. Rusk and Branston departed. +The drawing-room door stood open, and a charwoman was washing +the bare floor. I was looking my last—for who could say how +long?—on the old house, and lingered. The luggage was all up. +I made Mary Quince get in first, for every delay was precious; +and now the moment was come. I hugged and kissed Mrs. Rusk +in the hall.</p> + +<p>'God bless you, Miss Maud, darling. You must not fret; +mind, the time won't be long going over—<i>no</i> time at all; and +you'll be bringing back a fine young gentleman—who knows? +as great as the Duke of Wellington, for your husband; and I'll +take the best of care of everything, and the birds and the dogs, +till you come back; and I'll go and see you and Mary, if you'll +allow, in Derbyshire;' and so forth.</p> + +<p>I got into the carriage, and bid Branston, who shut the door, +good-bye, and kissed hands to Mrs. Rusk, who was smiling and +drying her eyes and courtesying on the hall-door steps. The +dogs, who had started gleefully with the carriage, were called +back by Branston, and driven home, wondering and wistful, +looking back with ears oddly cocked and tails dejected. My +heart thanked them for their kindness, and I felt like a stranger, +and very desolate.</p> + +<p>It was a bright, clear morning. It had been settled that it was +not worth the trouble changing from the carriage to the railway +for sake of five-and-twenty miles, and so the entire journey of +sixty miles was to be made by the post road—the pleasantest +travelling, if the mind were free. The grander and more distant +features of the landscape we may see well enough from +the window of the railway-carriage; but it is the foreground +that interests and instructs us, like a pleasant gossiping history; +and <i>that</i> we had, in old days, from the post-chaise window. It +was more than travelling picquet. Something of all conditions of +life—luxury and misery—high spirits and low;—all sorts of costume, +livery, rags, millinery; faces buxom, faces wrinkled, +faces kind, faces wicked;—no end of interest and suggestion, +passing in a procession silent and vivid, and all in their proper +scenery. The golden corn-sheafs—the old dark-alleyed orchards, +and the high streets of antique towns. There were few dreams +brighter, few books so pleasant.</p> + +<p>We drove by the dark wood—it always looked dark to me—where + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page188" id="page188"></a>[pg 180]</span> + +the 'mausoleum' stands—where my dear parents both lay +now. I gazed on its sombre masses not with a softened feeling, +but a peculiar sense of pain, and was glad when it was quite +past.</p> + +<p>All the morning I had not shed a tear. Good Mary Quince +cried at leaving Knowl; Lady Knollys' eyes were not dry as she +kissed and blessed me, and promised an early visit; and the +dark, lean, energetic face of the housekeeper was quivering, and +her cheeks wet, as I drove away. But I, whose grief was sorest, +never shed a tear. I only looked about from one familiar object +to another, pale, excited, not quite apprehending my departure, +and wondering at my own composure.</p> + +<p>But when we reached the old bridge, with the tall osiers standing +by the buttress, and looked back at poor Knowl—the places +we love and are leaving look so fairy-like and so sad in the clear +distance, and this is the finest view of the gabled old house, with +its slanting meadow-lands and noble timber reposing in solemn +groups—I gazed at the receding vision, and the tears came at +last, and I wept in silence long after the fair picture was hidden +from view by the intervening uplands.</p> + +<p>I was relieved, and when we had made our next change of +horses, and got into a country that was unknown to me, the new +scenery and the sense of progress worked their accustomed +effects on a young traveller who had lived a particularly secluded +life, and I began to experience, on the whole, a not unpleasurable +excitement.</p> + +<p>Mary Quince and I, with the hopefulness of inexperienced +travellers, began already to speculate about our proximity to +Bartram-Haugh, and were sorely disappointed when we heard +from the nondescript courier—more like a ostler than a servant, +who sat behind in charge of us and the luggage, and represented +my guardian's special care—at nearly one o'clock, that we had +still forty miles to go, a considerable portion of which was across +the high Derbyshire mountains, before we reached Bartram-Haugh.</p> + +<p>The fact was, we had driven at a pace accommodated rather +to the convenience of the horses than to our impatience; and +finding, at the quaint little inn where we now halted, that we +must wait for a nail or two in a loose shoe of one of our relay, +we consulted, and being both hungry, agreed to beguile the time + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page189" id="page189"></a>[pg 181]</span> + +with an early dinner, which we enjoyed very sociably in a queer +little parlour with a bow window, and commanding, with a +little garden for foreground, a very pretty landscape.</p> + +<p>Good Mary Quince, like myself, had quite dried her tears +by this time, and we were both highly interested, and I a little +nervous, too, about our arrival and reception at Bartram. Some +time, of course, was lost in this pleasant little parlour, before +we found ourselves once more pursuing our way.</p> + +<p>The slowest part of our journey was the pull up the long +mountain road, ascending zig-zag, as sailors make way against +a head-wind, by tacking. I forget the name of the pretty little +group of houses—it did not amount to a village—buried in trees, +where we got our <i>four</i> horses and two postilions, for the work +was severe. I can only designate it as the place where Mary +Quince and I had our tea, very comfortably, and bought some +gingerbread, very curious to look upon, but quite uneatable.</p> + +<p>The greater portion of the ascent, when we were fairly upon +the mountain, was accomplished at a walk, and at some particularly +steep points we had to get out and go on foot. But +this to me was quite delightful. I had never scaled a mountain +before, and the ferns and heath, the pure boisterous air, and +above all the magnificent view of the rich country we were +leaving behind, now gorgeous and misty in sunset tints, stretching +in gentle undulations far beneath us, quite enchanted me.</p> + +<p>We had just reached the summit when the sun went down. +The low grounds at the other side were already lying in cold +grey shadow, and I got the man who sat behind to point out as +well as he could the site of Bartram-Haugh. But mist was gathering +over all by this time. The filmy disk of the moon which +was to light us on, so soon as twilight faded into night, hung +high in air. I tried to see the sable mass of wood which he +described. But it was vain, and to acquire a clear idea of the +place, as of its master, I must only wait that nearer view which +an hour or two more would afford me.</p> + +<p>And now we rapidly descended the mountain side. The scenery +was wilder and bolder than I was accustomed to. Our road +skirted the edge of a great heathy moor. The silvery light of the +moon began to glimmer, and we passed a gipsy bivouac with +fires alight and caldrons hanging over them. It was the first I +had seen. Two or three low tents; a couple of dark, withered + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page190" id="page190"></a>[pg 182]</span> + +crones, veritable witches; a graceful girl standing behind, gazing +after us; and men in odd-shaped hats, with gaudy waistcoats and +bright-coloured neck-handkerchiefs and gaitered legs, stood +lazily in front. They had all a wild tawdry display of colour; +and a group of alders in the rear made a background of shade +for tents, fires, and figures.</p> + +<p>I opened a front window of the chariot, and called to the +postboys to stop. The groom from behind came to the window.</p> + +<p>'Are not those gipsies?' I enquired.</p> + +<p>'Yes, please'm, them's gipsies, sure, Miss,' he answered, glancing +with that odd smile, half contemptuous, half superstitious, +with which I have since often observed the peasants of Derbyshire +eyeing those thievish and uncanny neighbours.</p> + +<a name="chap31"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXI</h3> + +<h2><i>BARTRAM-HAUGH</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>In a moment a tall, lithe girl, black-haired, black-eyed, and, as +I thought, inexpressibly handsome, was smiling, with such beautiful +rings of pearly teeth, at the window; and in her peculiar +accent, with a suspicion of something foreign in it, proposing +with many courtesies to tell the lady her fortune.</p> + +<p>I had never seen this wild tribe of the human race before—children +of mystery and liberty. Such vagabondism and beauty +in the figure before me! I looked at their hovels and thought +of the night, and wondered at their independence, and felt my +inferiority. I could not resist. She held up her slim oriental +hand.</p> + +<p>'Yes, I'll hear my fortune,' I said, returning the sibyl's smile +instinctively.</p> + +<p>'Give me some money, Mary Quince. No, <i>not</i> that,' I said, +rejecting the thrifty sixpence she tendered, for I had heard that +the revelations of this weird sisterhood were bright in proportion +to the kindness of their clients, and was resolved to approach + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page191" id="page191"></a>[pg 183]</span> + +Bartram with cheerful auguries. 'That five-shilling +piece,' I insisted; and honest Mary reluctantly surrendered the +coin.</p> + +<p>So the feline beauty took it, with courtesies and 'thankees,' +smiling still, and hid it away as if she stole it, and looked on +my open palm still smiling; and told me, to my surprise, that +there was <i>somebody</i> I liked very much, and I was almost afraid +she would name Captain Oakley; that he would grow very +rich, and that I should marry him; that I should move about +from place to place a great deal for a good while to come. That +I had some enemies, who should be sometimes so near as to be in +the same room with me, and yet they should not be able to hurt +me. That I should see blood spilt and yet not my own, and +finally be very happy and splendid, like the heroine of a fairy +tale.</p> + +<p>Did this strange, girlish charlatan see in my face some signs of +shrinking when she spoke of enemies, and set me down for a +coward whose weakness might be profitable? Very likely. At +all events she plucked a long brass pin, with a round bead for a +head, from some part of her dress, and holding the point in her +fingers, and exhibiting the treasure before my eyes, she told me +that I must get a charmed pin like that, which her grandmother +had given to her, and she ran glibly through a story of all the +magic expended on it, and told me she could not part with it; +but its virtue was that you were to stick it through the blanket, +and while it was there neither rat, nor cat, nor snake—and then +came two more terms in the catalogue, which I suppose belonged +to the gipsy dialect, and which she explained to mean, as well +as I could understand, the first a malevolent spirit, and the second +'a cove to cut your throat,' could approach or hurt you.</p> + +<p>A charm like that, she gave me to understand, I must by hook +or by crook obtain. She had not a second. None of her people +in the camp over there possessed one. I am ashamed to confess +that I actually paid her a pound for this brass pin! The purchase +was partly an indication of my temperament, which could +never let an opportunity pass away irrevocably without a struggle, +and always apprehended 'Some day or other I'll reproach +myself for having neglected it!' and partly a record of the trepidations +of that period of my life. At all events I had her pin, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page192" id="page192"></a>[pg 184]</span> + +and she my pound, and I venture to say I was the gladder of the +two.</p> + +<p>She stood on the road-side bank courtseying and smiling, the +first enchantress I had encountered, and I watched the receding +picture, with its patches of firelight, its dusky groups and donkey +carts, white as skeletons in the moonlight, as we drove rapidly +away.</p> + +<p>They, I suppose, had a wild sneer and a merry laugh over +my purchase, as they sat and ate their supper of stolen poultry, +about their fire, and were duly proud of belonging to the superior race.</p> + +<p>Mary Quince, shocked at my prodigality, hinted a remonstrance.</p> + +<p>'It went to my heart, Miss, it did. They're such a lot, young +and old, all alike thieves and vagabonds, and many a poor body +wanting.'</p> + +<p>'Tut, Mary, never mind. Everyone has her fortune told some +time in her life, and you can't have a good one without paying. I +think, Mary, we must be near Bartram now.'</p> + +<p>The road now traversed the side of a steep hill, parallel to +which, along the opposite side of a winding river, rose the dark +steeps of a corresponding upland, covered with forest that looked +awful and dim in the deep shadow, while the moonlight +rippled fitfully upon the stream beneath.</p> + +<p>'It seems to be a beautiful country,' I said to Mary Quince, +who was munching a sandwich in the corner, and thus appealed +to, adjusted her bonnet, and made an inspection from <i>her</i> +window, which, however, commanded nothing but the heathy +slope of the hill whose side we were traversing.</p> + +<p>'Well, Miss, I suppose it is; but there's a deal o' mountains—is +not there?'</p> + +<p>And so saying, honest Mary leaned back again, and went on +with her sandwich.</p> + +<p>We were now descending at a great pace. I knew we were +coming near. I stood up as well as I could in the carriage, to see +over the postilions' heads. I was eager, but frightened too; agitated +as the crisis of the arrival and meeting approached. At last, +a long stretch of comparatively level country below us, with +masses of wood as well as I could see irregularly overspreading + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page193" id="page193"></a>[pg 185]</span> + +it, became visible as the narrow valley through which we were +speeding made a sudden bend.</p> + +<p>Down we drove, and now I did perceive a change. A great +grass-grown park-wall, overtopped with mighty trees; but still +on and on we came at a canter that seemed almost a gallop. The +old grey park-wall flanking us at one side, and a pretty pastoral +hedgerow of ash-trees, irregularly on the other.</p> + +<p>At last the postilions began to draw bridle, and at a slight +angle, the moon shining full upon them, we wheeled into a wide +semicircle formed by the receding park-walls, and halted before +a great fantastic iron gate, and a pair of tall fluted piers, of +white stone, all grass-grown and ivy-bound, with great cornices, +surmounted with shields and supporters, the Ruthyn bearings +washed by the rains of Derbyshire for many a generation of +Ruthyns, almost smooth by this time, and looking bleached and +phantasmal, like giant sentinels, with each a hand clasped in +his comrade's, to bar our passage to the enchanted castle—the +florid tracery of the iron gate showing like the draperies of white +robes hanging from their extended arms to the earth.</p> + +<p>Our courier got down and shoved the great gate open, and we +entered, between sombre files of magnificent forest trees, one of +those very broad straight avenues whose width measures the +front of the house. This was all built of white stone, resembling +that of Caen, which parts of Derbyshire produce in such abundance.</p> + +<p>So this was Bartram, and here was Uncle Silas. I was almost +breathless as I approached. The bright moon shining full on the +white front of the old house revealed not only its highly decorated +style, its fluted pillars and doorway, rich and florid +carving, and balustraded summit, but also its stained and moss-grown +front. Two giant trees, overthrown at last by the recent +storm, lay with their upturned roots, and their yellow foliage +still flickering on the sprays that were to bloom no more, where +they had fallen, at the right side of the court-yard, which, like +the avenue, was studded with tufted weeds and grass.</p> + +<p>All this gave to the aspect of Bartram a forlorn character of +desertion and decay, contrasting almost awfully with the grandeur +of its proportions and richness of its architecture.</p> + +<p>There was a ruddy glow from a broad window in the +second row, and I thought I saw some one peep from it and disappear; + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194" id="page194"></a>[pg 186]</span> + +at the same moment there was a furious barking of +dogs, some of whom ran scampering into the court-yard from +a half-closed side door; and amid their uproar, the bawling of +the man in the back seat, who jumped down to drive them off, +and the crack of the postilions' whips, who struck at them, we +drew up before the lordly door-steps of this melancholy mansion.</p> + +<p>Just as our attendant had his hand on the knocker the door +opened, and we saw, by a not very brilliant candle-light, three +figures—a shabby little old man, thin, and very much stooped, +with a white cravat, and looking as if his black clothes were too +large, and made for some one else, stood with his hand upon the +door; a young, plump, but very pretty female figure, in unusually +short petticoats, with fattish legs, and nice ankles, in boots, +stood in the centre; and a dowdy maid, like an old charwoman, +behind her.</p> + +<p>The household paraded for welcome was not certainly very +brilliant. Amid the riot the trunks were deliberately put down +by our attendant, who kept shouting to the old man at the door, +and to the dogs in turn; and the old man was talking and +pointing stiffly and tremulously, but I could not hear what he +said.</p> + +<p>'Was it possible—could that mean-looking old man be Uncle +Silas?'</p> + +<p>The idea stunned me; but I almost instantly perceived that he +was much too small, and I was relieved, and even grateful. It +was certainly an odd mode of procedure to devote primary attention +to the trunks and boxes, leaving the travellers still +shut up in the carriage, of which they were by this time pretty +well tired. I was not sorry for the reprieve, however: being nervous +about first impressions, and willing to defer mine, I sat +shyly back, peeping at the candle and moonlight picture before +me, myself unseen.</p> + +<p>'Will you tell—yes or no—is my cousin in the coach?' +screamed the plump young lady, stamping her stout black boot, +in a momentary lull.</p> + +<p>Yes, I was there, sure.</p> + +<p>'And why the puck don't you let her out, you stupe, you?'</p> + +<p>'Run down, Giblets, you never do nout without driving, and +let Cousin Maud out. You're very welcome to Bartram.' This +greeting was screamed at an amazing pitch, and repeated before + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195" id="page195"></a>[pg 187]</span> + +I had time to drop the window, and say 'thank you.' 'I'd a let +you out myself—there's a good dog, you would na' bite Cousin' +(the parenthesis was to a huge mastiff, who thrust himself beside +her, by this time quite pacified)—'only I daren't go down the +steps, for the governor said I shouldn't.'</p> + +<p>The venerable person who went by the name of Giblets had +by this time opened the carriage door, and our courier, or +'boots'—he looked more like the latter functionary—had lowered +the steps, and in greater trepidation than I experienced when in +after-days I was presented to my sovereign, I glided down, to offer +myself to the greeting and inspection of the plain-spoken +young lady who stood at the top of the steps to receive me.</p> + +<p>She welcomed me with a hug and a hearty buss, as she called +that salutation, on each cheek, and pulled me into the hall, and +was evidently glad to see me.</p> + +<p>'And you're tired a bit, I warrant; and who's the old 'un, +who?' she asked eagerly, in a stage whisper, which made my ear +numb for five minutes after. 'Oh, oh, the maid! and a precious +old 'un—ha, ha, ha! But lawk! how grand she is, with her black +silk, cloak and crape, and I only in twilled cotton, and rotten old +Coburg for Sundays. Odds! it's a shame; but you'll be tired, +you will. It's a smartish pull, they do say, from Knowl. I know +a spell of it, only so far as the "Cat and Fiddle," near the +Lunnon-road. Come up, will you? Would you like to come in +first and talk a bit wi' the governor? Father, you know, he's a +bit silly, he is, this while.' I found that the phrase meant only +<i>bodily</i> infirmity. 'He took a pain o' Friday, newralgie—something +or other he calls it—rheumatics it is when it takes old +"Giblets" there; and he's sitting in his own room; or maybe +you'd like better to come to your bedroom first, for it is dirty +work travelling, they do say.'</p> + +<p>Yes; I preferred the preliminary adjustment. Mary Quince +was standing behind me; and as my voluble kinswoman talked +on, we had each ample time and opportunity to observe the personnel +of the other; and she made no scruple of letting me perceive +that she was improving it, for she stared me full in the +face, taking in evidently feature after feature; and she felt the +material of my mantle pretty carefully between her finger and +thumb, and manually examined my chain and trinkets, and +picked up my hand as she might a glove, to con over my rings.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page196" id="page196"></a>[pg 188]</span> + +<p>I can't say, of course, exactly what impression I may have produced +on her. But in my cousin Milly I saw a girl who looked +younger than her years, plump, but with a slender waist, with +light hair, lighter than mine, and very blue eyes, rather round; +on the whole very good-looking. She had an odd swaggering +walk, a toss of her head, and a saucy and imperious, but rather +good-natured and honest countenance. She talked rather loud, +with a good ringing voice, and a boisterous laugh when it came.</p> + +<p>If <i>I</i> was behind the fashion, what would Cousin Monica have +thought of her? She was arrayed, as she had stated, in black +twilled cotton expressive of her affliction; but it was made almost +as short in the skirt as that of the prints of the Bavarian +broom girls. She had white cotton stockings, and a pair of black +leather boots, with leather buttons, and, for a lady, prodigiously +thick soles, which reminded me of the navvy boots I had so often +admired in <i>Punch</i>. I must add that the hands with which she +assisted her scrutiny of my dress, though pretty, were very much +sunburnt indeed.</p> + +<p>'And what's <i>her</i> name?' she demanded, nodding to Mary +Quince, who was gazing on her awfully, with round eyes, as +an inland spinster might upon a whale beheld for the first +time.</p> + +<p>Mary courtesied, and I answered.</p> + +<p>'Mary Quince,' she repeated. 'You're welcome, Quince. What +shall I call her? I've a name for all o' them. Old Giles there, +is Giblets. He did not like it first, but he answers quick enough +now; and Old Lucy Wyat there,' nodding toward the old woman, +'is Lucia de l'Amour.' A slightly erroneous reading of Lammermoor, +for my cousin sometimes made mistakes, and was not +much versed in the Italian opera. 'You know it's a play, and I +call her L'Amour for shortness;' and she laughed hilariously, +and I could not forbear joining; and, winking at me, she called +aloud, 'L'Amour.'</p> + +<p>To which the crone, with a high-cauled cap, resembling +Mother Hubbard, responded with a courtesy and 'Yes, 'm.'</p> + +<p>'Are all the trunks and boxes took up?'</p> + +<p>They were.</p> + +<p>'Well, we'll come now; and what shall I call you, Quince? +Let me see.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page197" id="page197"></a>[pg 189]</span> + +<p>'According to your pleasure, Miss,' answered Mary, with +dignity, and a dry courtesy.</p> + +<p>'Why, you're as hoarse as a frog, Quince. We'll call you +Quinzy for the present. That'll do. Come along, Quinzy.'</p> + +<p>So my Cousin Milly took me under the arm, and pulled me +forward; but as we ascended, she let me go, leaning back to +make inspection of my attire from a new point of view.</p> + +<p>'Hallo, cousin,' she cried, giving my dress a smack with her +open hand. 'What a plague do you want of all that bustle; +you'll leave it behind, lass, the first bush you jump over.'</p> + +<p>I was a good deal astounded. I was also very near laughing, +for there was a sort of importance in her plump countenance, +and an indescribable grotesqueness in the fashion of her garments, +which heightened the outlandishness of her talk, in a +way which I cannot at all describe.</p> + +<p>What palatial wide stairs those were which we ascended, with +their prodigious carved banisters of oak, and each huge pillar on +the landing-place crowned with a shield and carved heraldic +supporters; florid oak panelling covered the walls. But of the +house I could form no estimate, for Uncle Silas's housekeeping +did not provide light for hall and passages, and we were dependent +on the glimmer of a single candle; but there would be +quite enough of this kind of exploration in the daylight.</p> + +<p>So along dark oak flooring we advanced to my room, and I had +now an opportunity of admiring, at my leisure, the lordly proportions +of the building. Two great windows, with dark and +tarnished curtains, rose half as high again as the windows of +Knowl; and yet Knowl, in its own style, is a fine house. The +door-frames, like the window-frames, were richly carved; the +fireplace was in the same massive style, and the mantelpiece +projected with a mass of very rich carving. On the whole I was +surprised. I had never slept in so noble a room before.</p> + +<p>The furniture, I must confess, was by no means on a par with +the architectural pretensions of the apartment. A French bed, a +piece of carpet about three yards square, a small table, two +chairs, a toilet table—no wardrobe—no chest of drawers. The furniture +painted white, and of the light and diminutive kind, was +particularly ill adapted to the scale and style of the apartment, +one end only of which it occupied, and that but sparsely, leaving +the rest of the chamber in the nakedness of a stately desolation. + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page198" id="page198"></a>[pg 190]</span> + +My cousin Milly ran away to report progress to 'the Governor,' +as she termed Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>'Well, Miss Maud, I never did expect to see the like o' that!' +exclaimed honest Mary Quince, 'Did you ever see such a young +lady? She's no more like one o' the family than I am. Law +bless us! and what's she dressed like? Well, well, well!' And +Mary, with a rueful shake of her head, clicked her tongue pathetically +to the back of her teeth, while I could not forbear laughing.</p> + +<p>'And such a scrap o' furniture! Well, well, well!' and the +same ticking of the tongue followed.</p> + +<p>But, in a few minutes, back came Cousin Milly, and, with a +barbarous sort of curiosity, assisted in unpacking my trunks, +and stowing away the treasures, on which she ventured a variety +of admiring criticisms, in the presses which, like cupboards, +filled recesses in the walls, with great oak doors, the keys of +which were in them.</p> + +<p>As I was making my hurried toilet, she entertained me now +and then with more strictly personal criticisms.</p> + +<p>'Your hair's a shade darker than mine—it's none the better o' +that though—is it? Mine's said to be the right shade. I don't +know—what do you say?'</p> + +<p>I conceded the point with a good grace.</p> + +<p>'I wish my hands was as white though—you do lick me there; +but it's all gloves, and I never could abide 'em. I think I'll try +though—they <i>are</i> very white, sure.'</p> + +<p>'I wonder which is the prettiest, you or me? <i>I</i> don't know, +<i>I</i>'m sure—which do <i>you</i> think?'</p> + +<p>I laughed outright at this challenge, and she blushed a little, +and for the first time seemed for a moment a little shy.</p> + +<p>'Well, you <i>are</i> a half an inch longer than me, I think—don't +you?'</p> + +<p>I was fully an inch taller, so I had no difficulty in making the +proposed admission.</p> + +<p>'Well, you do look handsome! doesn't she, Quinzy, lass? but +your frock comes down almost to your heels—it does.'</p> + +<p>And she glanced from mine to hers, and made a little kick +up with the heel of the navvy boot to assist her in measuring +the comparative distance.</p> + +<p>'Maybe mine's a thought too short?' she suggested. 'Who's + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page199" id="page199"></a>[pg 191]</span> + +there? Oh! it's you, is it?' she cried as Mother Hubbard +appeared at the door. 'Come in, L'Amour—don't you know, lass, +you're always welcome?'</p> + +<p>She had come to let us know that Uncle Silas would be happy +to see me whenever I was ready; and that my cousin Millicent +would conduct me to the room where he awaited me.</p> + +<p>In an instant all the comic sensations awakened by my singular +cousin's eccentricities vanished, and I was thrilled with awe. I +was about to see in the flesh—faded, broken, aged, but still +identical—that being who had been the vision and the problem +of so many years of my short life.</p> + +<a name="chap32"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXII</h3> + +<h2><i>UNCLE SILAS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I thought my odd cousin was also impressed with a kind of +awe, though different in degree from mine, for a shade overcast +her face, and she was silent as we walked side by side along the +gallery, accompanied by the crone who carried the candle which +lighted us to the door of that apartment which I may call Uncle +Silas's presence chamber.</p> + +<p>Milly whispered to me as we approached—</p> + +<p>'Mind how you make a noise; the governor's as sharp as a +weasel, and nothing vexes him like that.'</p> + +<p>She was herself toppling along on tiptoe. We paused at a +door near the head of the great staircase, and L'Amour knocked +timidly with her rheumatic knuckles.</p> + +<p>A voice, clear and penetrating, from within summoned us +to enter. The old woman opened the door, and the next moment +I was in the presence of Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>At the far end of a handsome wainscoted room, near the +hearth in which a low fire was burning, beside a small table +on which stood four waxlights, in tall silver candlesticks, sat +a singular-looking old man.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page200" id="page200"></a>[pg 192]</span> + +<p>The dark wainscoting behind him, and the vastness of the +room, in the remoter parts of which the light which fell strongly +upon his face and figure expended itself with hardly any effect, +exhibited him with the forcible and strange relief of a finely +painted Dutch portrait. For some time I saw nothing but +him.</p> + +<p>A face like marble, with a fearful monumental look, and, for +an old man, singularly vivid strange eyes, the singularity of +which rather grew upon me as I looked; for his eyebrows were +still black, though his hair descended from his temples in long +locks of the purest silver and fine as silk, nearly to his shoulders.</p> + +<p>He rose, tall and slight, a little stooped, all in black, with an +ample black velvet tunic, which was rather a gown than a coat, +with loose sleeves, showing his snowy shirt some way up the +arm, and a pair of wrist buttons, then quite out of fashion, +which glimmered aristocratically with diamonds.</p> + +<p>I know I can't convey in words an idea of this apparition, +drawn as it seemed in black and white, venerable, bloodless, +fiery-eyed, with its singular look of power, and an expression so +bewildering—was it derision, or anguish, or cruelty, or patience?</p> + +<p>The wild eyes of this strange old man were fixed upon me +as he rose; an habitual contraction, which in certain lights +took the character of a scowl, did not relax as he advanced toward +me with his thin-lipped smile. He said something in his +clear, gentle, but cold voice, the import of which I was too much +agitated to catch, and he took both my hands in his, welcomed +me with a courtly grace which belonged to another age, and led +me affectionately, with many inquiries which I only half comprehended, +to a chair near his own.</p> + +<p>'I need not introduce my daughter; she has saved me that +mortification. You'll find her, I believe, good-natured and affectionate; +<i>au reste</i>, I fear a very rustic Miranda, and fitted +rather for the society of Caliban than of a sick old Prospero. Is +it not so, Millicent?'</p> + +<p>The old man paused sarcastically for an answer, with his eyes +fixed severely on my odd cousin, who blushed and looked uneasily +to me for a hint.</p> + +<p>'I don't know who they be—neither one nor t'other.'</p> + +<p>'Very good, my dear,' he replied, with a little mocking bow. +'You see, my dear Maud, what a Shakespearean you have got + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page201" id="page201"></a>[pg 193]</span> + +for a cousin. It's plain, however, she has made acquaintance +with some of our dramatists: she has studied the rôle of <i>Miss +Hoyden</i> so perfectly.'</p> + +<p>It was not a reasonable peculiarity of my uncle that he resented, +with a good deal of playful acrimony, my poor cousin's +want of education, for which, if he were not to blame, certainly +neither was she.</p> + +<p>'You see her, poor thing, a result of all the combined disadvantages +of want of refined education, refined companionship, +and, I fear, naturally, of refined tastes; but a sojourn at a good +French conventual school will do wonders, and I hope to +manage by-and-by. In the meantime we jest at our misfortunes, +and love one another, I hope, cordially.'</p> + +<p>He extended his thin, white hand with a chilly smile towards +Milly, who bounced up, and took it with a frightened look; +and he repeated, holding her hand rather slightly I thought, +'Yes, I hope, very cordially,' and then turning again to me, he +put it over the arm of his chair, and let it go, as a man might +drop something he did not want from a carriage window.</p> + +<p>Having made this apology for poor Milly, who was plainly bewildered, +he passed on, to her and my relief, to other topics, +every now and then expressing his fears that I was fatigued, and +his anxiety that I should partake of some supper or tea; but +these solicitudes somehow seemed to escape his remembrance +almost as soon as uttered; and he maintained the conversation, +which soon degenerated into a close, and to me a painful examination, +respecting my dear father's illness and its symptoms, +upon which I could give no information, and his habits, upon +which I could.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he fancied that there might be some family predisposition +to the organic disease of which his brother died, and +that his questions were directed rather to the prolonging of his +own life than to the better understanding of my dear father's +death.</p> + +<p>How little was there left to this old man to make life desirable, +and yet how keenly, I afterwards found, he clung to it. +Have we not all of us seen those to whom life was not only +<i>undesirable</i>, but positively painful—a mere series of bodily torments, +yet hold to it with a desperate and pitiable tenacity—old +children or young, it is all the same.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202" id="page202"></a>[pg 194]</span> + +<p>See how a sleepy child will put off the inevitable departure for +bed. The little creature's eyes blink and stare, and it needs constant +jogging to prevent his nodding off into the slumber which +nature craves. His waking is a pain; he is quite worn out, and +peevish, and stupid, and yet he implores a respite, and deprecates +repose, and vows he is not sleepy, even to the moment +when his mother takes him in her arms, and carries him, in a +sweet slumber, to the nursery. So it is with us old children of +earth and the great sleep of death, and nature our kind mother. +Just so reluctantly we part with consciousness, the picture is, +even to the last, so interesting; the bird in the hand, though +sick and moulting, so inestimably better than all the brilliant +tenants of the bush. We sit up, yawning, and blinking, and +stupid, the whole scene swimming before us, and the stories +and music humming off into the sound of distant winds and +waters. It is not time yet; we are not fatigued; we are good +for another hour still, and so protesting against bed, we falter +and drop into the dreamless sleep which nature assigns to +fatigue and satiety.</p> + +<p>He then spoke a little eulogy of his brother, very polished, +and, indeed, in a kind of way, eloquent. He possessed in a high +degree that accomplishment, too little cultivated, I think, by +the present generation, of expressing himself with perfect precision +and fluency. There was, too, a good deal of slight illustrative +quotation, and a sprinkling of French flowers, over his +conversation, which gave to it a character at once elegant and +artificial. It was all easy, light, and pointed, and being quite +new to me, had a wonderful fascination.</p> + +<p>He then told me that Bartram was the temple of liberty, that +the health of a whole life was founded in a few years of youth, +air, and exercise, and that accomplishments, at least, if not +education, should wait upon health. Therefore, while at Bartram, +I should dispose of my time quite as I pleased, and the +more I plundered the garden and gipsied in the woodlands, the +better.</p> + +<p>Then he told me what a miserable invalid he was, and how +the doctors interfered with his frugal tastes. A glass of beer and +a mutton chop—his ideal of a dinner—he dared not touch. They +made him drink light wines, which he detested, and live upon + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203" id="page203"></a>[pg 195]</span> + +those artificial abominations all liking for which vanishes with +youth.</p> + +<p>There stood on a side-table, in its silver coaster, a long-necked +Rhenish bottle, and beside it a thin pink glass, and he quivered +his fingers in a peevish way toward them.</p> + +<p>But unless he found himself better very soon, he would take +his case into his own hands, and try the dietary to which nature +pointed.</p> + +<p>He waved his fingers toward his bookcases, and told me his +books were altogether at my service during my stay; but this +promise ended, I must confess, disappointingly. At last, remarking +that I must be fatigued, he rose, and kissed me with +a solemn tenderness, placed his hand upon what I now perceived +to be a large Bible, with two broad silk markers, red and gold, +folded in it—the one, I might conjecture, indicating the place +in the Old, the other in the New Testament. It stood on the +small table that supported the waxlights, with a handsome cut +bottle of eau-de-cologne, his gold and jewelled pencil-case, and +his chased repeater, chain, and seals, beside it. There certainly +were no indications of poverty in Uncle Silas's room; and he +said impressively—</p> + +<p>'Remember that book; in it your father placed his trust, in +it he found his reward, in it lives my only hope; consult it, +my beloved niece, day and night, as the oracle of life.'</p> + +<p>Then he laid his thin hand on my head, and blessed me, +and then kissed my forehead.</p> + +<p>'No—a!' exclaimed Cousin Milly's lusty voice. I had quite +forgotten her presence, and looked at her with a little start. She was +seated on a very high old-fashioned chair; she had palpably been asleep; +her round eyes were blinking and staring glassily at us; and her white legs +and navvy boots were dangling in the air.</p> + +<p>'Have you anything to remark about Noah?' enquired her +father, with a polite inclination and an ironical interest.</p> + +<p>'No—a,' she repeated in the same blunt accents; 'I didn't +snore; did I? No—a.'</p> + +<p>The old man smiled and shrugged a little at me—it was the +smile of disgust.</p> + +<p>'Good night, my dear Maud;' and turning to her, he said, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204" id="page204"></a>[pg 196]</span> + +with a peculiar gentle sharpness, 'Had not you better wake, my +dear, and try whether your cousin would like some supper?'</p> + +<p>So he accompanied us to the door, outside which we found +L'Amour's candle awaiting us.</p> + +<p>'I'm awful afraid of the Governor, I am. Did I snore that +time?'</p> + +<p>'No, dear; at least, I did not hear it,' I said, unable to repress +a smile.</p> + +<p>'Well, if I didn't, I was awful near it,' she said, reflectively.</p> + +<p>We found poor Mary Quince dozing over the fire; but we +soon had tea and other good things, of which Milly partook +with a wonderful appetite.</p> + +<p>'I <i>was</i> in a qualm about it,' said Milly, who by this time was +quite herself again. 'When he spies me a-napping, maybe he +don't fetch me a prod with his pencil-case over the head. Odd! +girl, it <i>is</i> sore.'</p> + +<p>When I contrasted the refined and fluent old gentleman whom +I had just left, with this amazing specimen of young ladyhood, I +grew sceptical almost as to the possibility of her being his child.</p> + +<p>I was to learn, however, how little she had, I won't say of his +society, but even of his presence—that she had no domestic companion +of the least pretensions to education—that she ran wild +about the place—never, except in church, so much as saw a person +of that rank to which she was born—and that the little she +knew of reading and writing had been picked up, in desultory +half-hours, from a person who did not care a pin about her manners +or decorum, and perhaps rather enjoyed her grotesqueness—and +that no one who was willing to take the least trouble about +her was competent to make her a particle more refined than +I saw her—the wonder ceased. We don't know how little is +heritable, and how much simply training, until we encounter +some-such spectacle as that of my poor cousin Milly.</p> + +<p>When I lay down in my bed and reviewed the day, it seemed +like a month of wonders. Uncle Silas was always before me; the +voice so silvery for an old man—so preternaturally soft; the manners +so sweet, so gentle; the aspect, smiling, suffering, spectral. +It was no longer a shadow; I had now seen him in the flesh. +But, after all, was he more than a shadow to me? When I closed +my eyes I saw him before me still, in necromantic black, ashy +with a pallor on which I looked with fear and pain, a face so + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page205" id="page205"></a>[pg 197]</span> + +dazzlingly pale, and those hollow, fiery, awful eyes! It sometimes +seemed as if the curtain opened, and I had seen a ghost.</p> + +<p>I had seen him; but he was still an enigma and a marvel. +The living face did not expound the past, any more than the +portrait portended the future. He was still a mystery and a +vision; and thinking of these things I fell asleep.</p> + +<p>Mary Quince, who slept in the dressing-room, the door of +which was close to my bed, and lay open to secure me against +ghosts, called me up; and the moment I knew where I was I +jumped up, and peeped eagerly from the window. It commanded +the avenue and court-yard; but we were many windows removed +from that over the hall-door, and immediately beneath +ours lay the two giant lime trees, prostrate and uprooted, +which I had observed as we drove up the night before.</p> + +<p>I saw more clearly in the bright light of morning the signs +of neglect and almost of dilapidation which had struck me as I +approached. The court-yard was tufted over with grass, seldom +from year to year crushed by the carriage-wheels, or trodden by +the feet of visitors. This melancholy verdure thickened where +the area was more remote from the centre; and under the windows, +and skirting the walls to the left, was reinforced by a +thick grove of nettles. The avenue was all grass-grown, except +in the very centre, where a narrow track still showed the roadway. +The handsome carved balustrade of the court-yard was +discoloured with lichens, and in two places gapped and broken; +and the air of decay was heightened by the fallen trees, among +whose sprays and yellow leaves the small birds were hopping.</p> + +<p>Before my toilet was completed, in marched my cousin Milly. +We were to breakfast alone that morning, 'and so much the +better,' she told me. Sometimes the Governor ordered her to +breakfast with him, and 'never left off chaffing her' till his +newspaper came, and 'sometimes he said such things he made +her cry,' and then he only 'boshed her more,' and packed her +away to her room; but she was by chalks nicer than him, talk +as he might. '<i>Was</i> not she nicer? was not she? was not she?' +Upon this point she was so strong and urgent that I was obliged +to reply by a protest against awarding the palm of elegance +between parent and child, and declaring I liked her very much, +which I attested by a kiss.</p> + +<p>'I know right well which of us you do think's the nicest, and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page206" id="page206"></a>[pg 198]</span> + +no mistake, only you're afraid of him; and he had no business +boshing me last night before you. I knew he was at it, though I +couldn't twig him altogether; but wasn't he a sneak, now, wasn't +he?'</p> + +<p>This was a still more awkward question; so I kissed her again, +and said she must never ask me to say of my uncle in his absence anything I +could not say to his face.</p> + +<p>At which speech she stared at me for a while, and then treated +me to one of her hearty laughs, after which she seemed happier, +and gradually grew into better humour with her father.</p> + +<p>'Sometimes, when the curate calls, he has me up—for he's as +religious as six, he is—and they read Bible and prays, ho—don't +they? You'll have that, lass, like me, to go through; and maybe +I don't hate it; oh, no!'</p> + +<p>We breakfasted in a small room, almost a closet, off the great +parlour, which was evidently quite disused. Nothing could be +homelier than our equipage, or more shabby than the furniture +of the little apartment. Still, somehow, I liked it. It was a total +change; but one likes 'roughing it' a little at first.</p> + +<a name="chap33"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXIII</h3> + +<h2><i>THE WINDMILL WOOD</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I had not time to explore this noble old house as my curiosity +prompted; for Milly was in such a fuss to set out for the 'blackberry dell' +that I saw little more than just so much as I necessarily traversed in +making my way to and from my room.</p> + +<p>The actual decay of the house had been prevented by my dear +father; and the roof, windows, masonry, and carpentry had all +been kept in repair. But short of indications of actual ruin, +there are many manifestations of poverty and neglect which impress with a +feeling of desolation. It was plain that not nearly +a tithe of this great house was inhabited; long corridors and +galleries stretched away in dust and silence, and were crossed + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page207" id="page207"></a>[pg 199]</span> + +by others, whose dark arches inspired me in the distance with +an awful sort of sadness. It was plainly one of those great structures in +which you might easily lose yourself, and with a pleasing terror it +reminded me of that delightful old abbey in Mrs. +Radcliffe's romance, among whose silent staircases, dim passages, +and long suites of lordly, but forsaken chambers, begirt without +by the sombre forest, the family of La Mote secured a gloomy +asylum.</p> + +<p>My cousin Milly and I, however, were bent upon an open-air +ramble, and traversing several passages, she conducted me to +a door which led us out upon a terrace overgrown with weeds, +and by a broad flight of steps we descended to the level of the +grounds beneath. Then on, over the short grass, under the noble +trees, we walked; Milly in high good-humour, and talking away +volubly, in her short garment, navvy boots, and a weather-beaten +hat. She carried a stick in her gloveless hand. Her conversation +was quite new to me, and resembled very much what I would +have fancied the holiday recollections of a schoolboy; and the +language in which it was sustained was sometimes so outlandish, +that I was forced to laugh outright—a demonstration which she +plainly did not like.</p> + +<p>Her talk was about the great jumps she had made—how she +'snow-balled the chaps' in winter—how she could slide twice the +length of her stick beyond 'Briddles, the cow-boy.'</p> + +<p>With this and similar conversation she entertained me.</p> + +<p>The grounds were delightfully wild and neglected. But we +had now passed into a vast park beautifully varied with hollows +and uplands, and such glorious old timber massed and scattered +over its slopes and levels. Among these, we got at last into a +picturesque dingle; the grey rocks peeped from among the ferns +and wild flowers, and the steps of soft sward along its sides were +dark in the shadows of silver-stemmed birch, and russet thorn, +and oak, under which, in the vaporous night, the Erl-king and +his daughter might glide on their aërial horses.</p> + +<p>In the lap of this pleasant dell were the finest blackberry +bushes, I think, I ever saw, bearing fruit quite fabulous; and +plucking these, and chatting, we rambled on very pleasantly.</p> + +<p>I had first thought of Milly's absurdities, to which, in description, I +cannot do justice, simply because so many details have, +by distance of time, escaped my recollection. But her ways and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page208" id="page208"></a>[pg 200]</span> + +her talk were so indescribably grotesque that she made me +again and again quiver with suppressed laughter.</p> + +<p>But there was a pitiable and even a melancholy meaning underlying +the burlesque.</p> + +<p>This creature, with no more education than a dairy-maid, I +gradually discovered had fine natural aptitudes for accomplishment—a +very sweet voice, and wonderfully delicate ear, and a +talent for drawing which quite threw mine into the shade. It was +really astonishing.</p> + +<p>Poor Milly, in all her life, had never read three books, and +hated to think of them. One, over which she was wont to yawn +and sigh, and stare fatiguedly for an hour every Sunday, by command of the +Governor, was a stout volume of sermons of the +earlier school of George III., and a drier collection you can't +fancy. I don't think she read anything else. But she had, notwithstanding, +ten times the cleverness of half the circulating +library misses one meets with. Besides all this, I had a long +sojourn before me at Bartram-Haugh, and I had learned from +Milly, as I had heard before, what a perennial solitude it was, +with a ludicrous fear of learning Milly's preposterous dialect, +and turning at last into something like her. So I resolved to do +all I could for her—teach her whatever I knew, if she would +allow me—and gradually, if possible, effect some civilising +changes in her language, and, as they term it in boarding-schools, her +demeanour.</p> + +<p>But I must pursue at present our first day's ramble in what +was called Bartram Chase. People can't go on eating blackberries +always; so after a while we resumed our walk along this pretty +dell, which gradually expanded into a wooded valley—level +beneath and enclosed by irregular uplands, receding, as it were, +in mimic bays and harbours at some points, and running out at +others into broken promontories, ending in clumps of forest +trees.</p> + +<p>Just where the glen which we had been traversing expanded +into this broad, but wooded valley, it was traversed by a high +and close paling, which, although it looked decayed, was still +very strong.</p> + +<p>In this there was a wooden gate, rudely but strongly constructed, +and at the side we were approaching stood a girl, who + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page209" id="page209"></a>[pg 201]</span> + +was leaning against the post, with one arm resting on the top of +the gate.</p> + +<p>This girl was neither tall nor short—taller than she looked at a +distance; she had not a slight waist; sooty black was her hair, +with a broad forehead, perpendicular but low; she had a pair +of very fine, dark, lustrous eyes, and no other good feature—unless +I may so call her teeth, which were very white and even. +Her face was rather short, and swarthy as a gipsy's; observant +and sullen too; and she did not move, only eyed us negligently +from under her dark lashes as we drew near. Altogether a not +unpicturesque figure, with a dusky, red petticoat of drugget, and +tattered jacket of bottle-green stuff, with short sleeves, which +showed her brown arms from the elbow.</p> + +<p>'That's Pegtop's daughter,' said Milly.</p> + +<p>'Who is Pegtop?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'He's the miller—see, yonder it is,' and she pointed to a very +pretty feature in the landscape, a windmill, crowning the summit +of a hillock which rose suddenly above the level of the treetops, +like an island in the centre of the valley.</p> + +<p>'The mill not going to-day, Beauty?' bawled Milly.</p> + +<p>'No—a, Beauty; it baint,' replied the girl, loweringly, and +without stirring.</p> + +<p>'And what's gone with the stile?' demanded Milly, aghast. +'It's tore away from the paling!'</p> + +<p>'Well, so it be,' replied the wood nymph in the red petticoat, +showing her fine teeth with a lazy grin.</p> + +<p>'Who's a bin and done all that?' demanded Milly.</p> + +<p>'Not you nor me, lass,' said the girl.</p> + +<p>''Twas old Pegtop, your father, did it,' cried Milly, in rising +wrath.</p> + +<p>''Appen it wor,' she replied.</p> + +<p>'And the gate locked.'</p> + +<p>'That's it—the gate locked,' she repeated, sulkily, with a defiant +side-glance at Milly.</p> + +<p>'And where's Pegtop?'</p> + +<p>'At t'other side, somewhere; how should I know where he +be?' she replied.</p> + +<p>'Who's got the key?'</p> + +<p>'Here it be, lass,' she answered, striking her hand on her +pocket.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page210" id="page210"></a>[pg 202]</span> + +<p>'And how durst you stay us here? Unlock it, huzzy, this +minute!' cried Milly, with a stamp.</p> + +<p>Her answer was a sullen smile.</p> + +<p>'Open the gate this instant!' bawled Milly.</p> + +<p>'Well, I <i>won't.</i>'</p> + +<p>I expected that Milly would have flown into a frenzy at this +direct defiance, but she looked instead puzzled and curious—the +girl's unexpected audacity bewildered her.</p> + +<p>'Why, you fool, I could get over the paling as soon as look at +you, but I won't. What's come over you? Open the gate, I say, +or I'll make you.'</p> + +<p>'Do let her alone, dear,' I entreated, fearing a mutual assault. +'She has been ordered, may be, not to open it. Is it so, my +good girl?'</p> + +<p>'Well, thou'rt not the biggest fool o' the two,' she observed, +commendatively, 'thou'st hit it, lass.'</p> + +<p>'And who ordered you?' exclaimed Milly.</p> + +<p>'Fayther.'</p> + +<p>'Old Pegtop. Well, <i>that's</i> summat to laugh at, it is—our servant +a-shutting us out of our own grounds.'</p> + +<p>'No servant o' yourn!'</p> + +<p>'Come, lass, what do you mean?'</p> + +<p>'He be old Silas's miller, and what's that to thee?'</p> + +<p>With these words the girl made a spring on the hasp of the +padlock, and then got easily over the gate.</p> + +<p>'Can't you do that, cousin?' whispered Milly to me, with an +impatient nudge. 'I <i>wish</i> you'd try.'</p> + +<p>'No, dear—come away, Milly,' and I began to withdraw.</p> + +<p>'Lookee, lass, 'twill be an ill day's work for thee when I tell +the Governor,' said Milly, addressing the girl, who stood on a +log of timber at the other side, regarding us with a sullen composure.</p> + +<p>'We'll be over in spite o' you,' cried Milly.</p> + +<p>'You lie!' answered she.</p> + +<p>'And why not, huzzy?' demanded my cousin, who was less +incensed at the affront than I expected. All this time I was urging +Milly in vain to come away.</p> + +<p>'Yon lass is no wild cat, like thee—that's why,' said the sturdy +portress.</p> + +<p>'If I cross, I'll give you a knock,' said Milly.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page211" id="page211"></a>[pg 203]</span> + +<p>'And I'll gi' thee another,' she answered, with a vicious wag +of the head.</p> + +<p>'Come, Milly, <i>I'll</i> go if <i>you</i> don't,' I said.</p> + +<p>'But we must not be beat,' whispered she, vehemently, catching +my arm; 'and ye <i>shall</i> get over, and <i>see</i> what I will gi' her!'</p> + +<p>'I'll <i>not</i> get over.'</p> + +<p>'Then I'll break the door, for ye <i>shall</i> come through,' exclaimed +Milly, kicking the stout paling with her ponderous boot.</p> + +<p>'Purr it, purr it, purr it!' cried the lass in the red petticoat +with a grin.</p> + +<p>'Do you know who this lady is?' cried Milly, suddenly.</p> + +<p>'She is a prettier lass than thou,' answered Beauty.</p> + +<p>'She's <i>my</i> cousin Maud—Miss Ruthyn of Knowl—and she's a +deal richer than the Queen; and the Governor's taking care of +her; and he'll make old Pegtop bring you to reason.'</p> + +<p>The girl eyed me with a sulky listlessness, a little inquisitively, +I thought.</p> + +<p>'See if he don't,' threatened Milly.</p> + +<p>'You positively <i>must</i> come,' I said, drawing her away with me.</p> + +<p>'Well, shall we come in?' cried Milly, trying a last summons.</p> + +<p>'You'll not come in that much,' she answered, surlily, measuring +an infinitesimal distance on her finger with her thumb, +which she pinched against it, the gesture ending with a snap +of defiance, and a smile that showed her fine teeth.</p> + +<p>'I've a mind to shy a stone at you,' shouted Milly.</p> + +<p>'Faire away; I'll shy wi' ye as long as ye like, lass; take heed +o' yerself;' and Beauty picked up a round stone as large as a +cricket ball.</p> + +<p>With difficulty I got Milly away without an exchange of +missiles, and much disgusted at my want of zeal and agility.</p> + +<p>'Well, come along, cousin, I know an easy way by the river, +when it's low,' answered Milly. 'She's a brute—is not she?'</p> + +<p>As we receded, we saw the girl slowly wending her way towards +the old thatched cottage, which showed its gable from +the side of a little rugged eminence embowered in spreading +trees, and dangling and twirling from its string on the end of +her finger the key for which a battle had so nearly been fought.</p> + +<p>The stream was low enough to make our flank movement +round the end of the paling next it quite easy, and so we pursued + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page212" id="page212"></a>[pg 204]</span> + +our way, and Milly's equanimity returned, and our ramble +grew very pleasant again.</p> + +<p>Our path lay by the river bank, and as we proceeded, the +dwarf timber was succeeded by grander trees, which crowded +closer and taller, and, at last, the scenery deepened into solemn +forest, and a sudden sweep in the river revealed the beautiful +ruin of a steep old bridge, with the fragments of a gate-house +on the farther side.</p> + +<p>'Oh, Milly darling!' I exclaimed, 'what a beautiful drawing +this would make! I should so like to make a sketch of it.'</p> + +<p>'So it would. <i>Make</i> a picture—<i>do</i>!—here's a stone that's pure +and flat to sit upon, and you look very tired. Do make it, and I'll sit by +you.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Milly, I <i>am</i> tired, a little, and I <i>will</i> sit down; but we +must wait for another day to make the picture, for we have +neither pencil nor paper. But it is much too pretty to be lost; +so let us come again to-morrow.'</p> + +<p>'To-morrow be hanged! you'll do it to-day, bury-me-wick, but +you <i>shall</i>; I'm wearying to see you make a picture, and I'll +fetch your conundrums out o' your drawer, for do 't you shall.'</p> + +<a name="chap34"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXIV</h3> + +<h2><i>ZAMIEL</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>It was all vain my remonstrating. She vowed that by crossing +the stepping-stones close by she could, by a short cut, reach the +house, and return with my pencils and block-book in a quarter of +an hour. Away then, with many a jump and fling, scampered +Milly's queer white stockings and navvy boots across the irregular +and precarious stepping-stones, over which I dared not follow +her; so I was fain to return to the stone so 'pure and flat,' on +which I sat, enjoying the grand sylvan solitude, the dark background +and the grey bridge mid-way, so tall and slim, across +whose ruins a sunbeam glimmered, and the gigantic forest trees + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page213" id="page213"></a>[pg 205]</span> + +that slumbered round, opening here and there in dusky vistas, +and breaking in front into detached and solemn groups. It was +the setting of a dream of romance.</p> + +<p>It would have been the very spot in which to read a volume of +German folk-lore, and the darkening colonnades and silent +nooks of the forest seemed already haunted with the voices and +shadows of those charming elves and goblins.</p> + +<p>As I sat here enjoying the solitude and my fancies among the +low branches of the wood, at my right I heard a crashing, and +saw a squat broad figure in a stained and tattered military coat, +and loose short trousers, one limb of which flapped about a +wooden leg. He was forcing himself through. His face was rugged +and wrinkled, and tanned to the tint of old oak; his eyes +black, beadlike, and fierce, and a shock of sooty hair escaped +from under his battered wide-awake nearly to his shoulders. This +forbidding-looking person came stumping and jerking along toward +me, whisking his stick now and then viciously in the air, +and giving his fell of hair a short shake, like a wild bull +preparing to attack.</p> + +<p>I stood up involuntarily with a sense of fear and surprise, +almost fancying I saw in that wooden-legged old soldier, the +forest demon who haunted Der Freischütz.</p> + +<p>So he approached shouting—</p> + +<p>'Hollo! you—how came you here? Dost 'eer?'</p> + +<p>And he drew near panting, and sometimes tugging angrily in +his haste at his wooden leg, which sunk now and then deeper +than was convenient in the sod. This exertion helped to anger +him, and when he halted before me, his dark face smirched with +smoke and dust, and the nostrils of his flat drooping nose +expanded and quivered as he panted, like the gills of a fish; an +angrier or uglier face it would not be easy to fancy.</p> + +<p>'Ye'll all come when ye like, will ye? and do nout but what +pleases yourselves, won't you? And who'rt thou? Dost 'eer—who +<i>are</i> ye, I say; and what the deil seek ye in the woods +here? Come, bestir thee!'</p> + +<p>If his wide mouth and great tobacco-stained teeth, his scowl, +and loud discordant tones were intimidating, they were also +extremely irritating. The moment my spirit was roused, my +courage came.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page214" id="page214"></a>[pg 206]</span> + +<p>'I am Miss Ruthyn of Knowl, and Mr. Silas Ruthyn, your +master, is my uncle.'</p> + +<p>'Hoo!' he exclaimed more gently, 'an' if Silas be thy uncle +thou'lt be come to live wi' him, and thou'rt she as come overnight—eh?'</p> + +<p>I made no answer, but I believe I looked both angrily and +disdainfully.</p> + +<p>'And what make ye alone here? and how was I to know 't, +an' Milly not wi' ye, nor no one? But Maud or no Maud, I +wouldn't let the Dooke hisself set foot inside the palin' without +Silas said let him. And you may tell Silas them's the words o' +Dickon Hawkes, and I'll stick to 'm—and what's more I'll tell +him <i>myself</i>—I will; I'll tell him there be no use o' my +striving and straining hee, day an' night and night and day, watchin' +again poachers, and thieves, and gipsies, and they robbing lads, +if rules won't be kep, and folk do jist as they pleases. Dang it, +lass, thou'rt in luck I didn't heave a brick at thee when I saw +thee first.'</p> + +<p>'I'll complain of you to my uncle,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'So do, and and 'appen thou'lt find thyself in the wrong box, +lass; thou canst na' say I set the dogs arter thee, nor cau'd thee +so much as a wry name, nor heave a stone at thee—did I? Well? +and where's the complaint then?'</p> + +<p>I simply answered, rather fiercely,</p> + +<p>'Be good enough to leave me.'</p> + +<p>'Well, I make no objections, mind. I'm takin' thy word—thou'rt +Maud Ruthyn—'appen thou be'st and 'appen thou baint. +I'm not aweer on't, but I takes thy word, and all I want to +know's just this, did Meg open the gate to thee?'</p> + +<p>I made him no answer, and to my great relief I saw Milly +striding and skipping across the unequal stepping-stones.</p> + +<p>'Hallo, Pegtop! what are you after now?' she cried, as she +drew near.</p> + +<p>'This man has been extremely impertinent. You know him, +Milly?' I said.</p> + +<p>'Why that's Pegtop Dickon. Dirty old Hawkes that never +was washed. I tell you, lad, ye'll see what the Governor thinks +o't—a-ha! He'll talk to you.'</p> + +<p>'I done or said nout—not but I <i>should</i>, and there's the fack—she +can't deny't; she hadn't a hard word from I; and I don't + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215" id="page215"></a>[pg 207]</span> + +care the top o' that thistle what no one says—not I. But I tell +thee, Milly, I stopped <i>some</i> o' thy pranks, and I'll stop more. +Ye'll be shying no more stones at the cattle.'</p> + +<p>'Tell your tales, and welcome,' cried Milly. 'I wish I was +here when you jawed cousin. If Winny was here she'd catch you +by the timber toe and put you on your back.'</p> + +<p>'Ay, she'll be a good un yet if she takes arter thee,' retorted +the old man with a fierce sneer.</p> + +<p>'Drop it, and get away wi' ye,' cried she, 'or maybe I'd call +Winny to smash your timber leg for you.'</p> + +<p>'A-ha! there's more on't. She's a sweet un. Isn't she?' he +replied sardonically.</p> + +<p>'You did not like it last Easter, when Winny broke it with a +kick.'</p> + +<p>''Twas a kick o' a horse,' he growled with a glance at me.</p> + +<p>''Twas no such thing—'twas Winny did it—and he laid on his +back for a week while carpenter made him a new one.' And +Milly laughed hilariously.</p> + +<p>'I'll fool no more wi' ye, losing my time; I won't; but mind +ye, I'll speak wi' Silas.' And going away he put his hand to his +crumpled wide-awake, and said to me with a surly difference—</p> + +<p>'Good evening, Miss Ruthyn—good evening, ma'am—and ye'll +please remember, I did not mean nout to vex thee.'</p> + +<p>And so he swaggered away, jerking and waddling over the +sward, and was soon lost in the wood.</p> + +<p>'It's well he's a little bit frightened—I never saw him so +angry, I think; he is awful mad.'</p> + +<p>'Perhaps he really is not aware how very rude he is,' I suggested.</p> + +<p>'I hate him. We were twice as pleasant with poor Tom Driver—he +never meddled with any one, and was always in liquor; +Old Gin was the name he went by. But this brute—I do hate +him—he comes from Wigan, I think, and he's always spoiling +sport—and he whops Meg—that's Beauty, you know, and I don't +think she'd be half as bad only for him. Listen to him whistlin'.'</p> + +<p>'I did hear whistling at some distance among the trees.'</p> + +<p>'I declare if he isn't callin' the dogs! Climb up here, I tell +ye,' and we climbed up the slanting trunk of a great walnut + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216" id="page216"></a>[pg 208]</span> + +tree, and strained our eyes in the direction from which we expected the +onset of Pegtop's vicious pack.</p> + +<p>But it was a false alarm.</p> + +<p>'Well, I don't think he <i>would</i> do that, after all—<i>hardly</i>; but +he is a brute, sure!'</p> + +<p>'And that dark girl who would not let us through, is his +daughter, is she?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, that's Meg—Beauty, I christened her, when I called him +Beast; but I call him Pegtop now, and she's Beauty still, and +that's the way o't.'</p> + +<p>'Come, sit down now, an' make your picture,' she resumed so +soon as we had dismounted from our position of security.</p> + +<p>'I'm afraid I'm hardly in the vein. I don't think I could draw +a straight line. My hand trembles.'</p> + +<p>'I wish you could, Maud,' said Milly, with a look so wistful +and entreating, that considering the excursion she had made for +the pencils, I could not bear to disappoint her.</p> + +<p>'Well, Milly, we must only try; and if we fail we can't help +it. Sit you down beside me and I'll tell you why I begin with +one part and not another, and you'll see how I make trees and +the river, and—yes, <i>that</i> pencil, it is hard and answers for the +fine +light lines; but we must begin at the beginning, and learn to +copy drawings before we attempt real views like this. And if you +wish it, Milly, I'm resolved to teach you everything I know, +which, after all, is not a great deal, and we shall have such fun +making sketches of the same landscapes, and then comparing.'</p> + +<p>And so on, Milly, quite delighted, and longing to begin her +course of instruction, sat down beside me in a rapture, and +hugged and kissed me so heartily that we were very near rolling +together off the stone on which we were seated. Her boisterous +delight and good-nature helped to restore me, and both laughing +heartily together, I commenced my task.</p> + +<p>'Dear me! who's that?' I exclaimed suddenly, as looking up +from my block-book I saw the figure of a slight man in the +careless morning-dress of a gentleman, crossing the ruinous +bridge in our direction, with considerable caution, upon the +precarious footing of the battlement, which alone offered an unbroken +passage.</p> + +<p>This was a day of apparitions! Milly recognised him instantly. The +gentleman was Mr. Carysbroke. He had taken The + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217" id="page217"></a>[pg 209]</span> + +Grange only for a year. He lived quite to himself, and was very +good to the poor, and was the only gentleman, for ever so long, +who had visited at Bartram, and oddly enough nowhere else. +But he wanted leave to cross through the grounds, and having +obtained it, had repeated his visit, partly induced, no doubt, by +the fact that Bartram boasted no hospitalities, and that there +was no risk of meeting the county folk there.</p> + +<p>With a stout walking-stick in his hand, and a short shooting-coat, +and a wide-awake hat in much better trim than Zamiel's, +he emerged from the copse that covered the bridge, walking at a +quick but easy pace.</p> + +<p>'He'll be goin' to see old Snoddles, I guess,' said Milly, looking +a little frightened and curious; for Milly, I need not say, +was a bumpkin, and stood in awe of this gentleman's good-breeding, +though she was as brave as a lion, and would have +fought the Philistines at any odds, with the jawbone of an ass.</p> + +<p>''Appen he won't see us,' whispered Milly, hopefully.</p> + +<p>But he did, and raising his hat, with a cheerful smile, that +showed very white teeth, he paused.</p> + +<p>'Charming day, Miss Ruthyn.'</p> + +<p>I raised my head suddenly as he spoke, from habit appropriating +the address; it was so marked that he raised his hat respectfully +to me, and then continued to Milly—</p> + +<p>'Mr. Ruthyn, I hope, quite well? but I need hardly ask, you +seem so happy. Will you kindly tell him, that I expect the book +I mentioned in a day or two, and when it comes I'll either send +or bring it to him immediately?'</p> + +<p>Milly and I were standing, by this time, but she only stared +at him, tongue-tied, her cheeks rather flushed, and her eyes +very round, and to facilitate the dialogue, as I suppose, he said +again—</p> + +<p>'He's quite well, I hope?'</p> + +<p>Still no response from Milly, and I, provoked, though myself +a little shy, made answer—</p> + +<p>'My uncle, Mr. Ruthyn, is very well, thank you,' and I felt +that I blushed as I spoke.</p> + +<p>'Ah, pray excuse me, may I take a great liberty? you are Miss +Ruthyn, of Knowl? Will you think me very impertinent—I'm +afraid you will—if I venture to introduce myself? My name is +Carysbroke, and I had the honour of knowing poor Mr. Ruthyn + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page218" id="page218"></a>[pg 210]</span> + +when I was quite a little boy, and he has shown a kindness for +me since, and I hope you will pardon the liberty I fear I've +taken. I think my friend, Lady Knollys, too, is a relation of +yours; what a charming person she is!'</p> + +<p>'Oh, is not she? such a darling!' I said, and then blushed at +my outspoken affection.</p> + +<p>But he smiled kindly, as if he liked me for it; and he said—</p> + +<p>'You know whatever I think, I dare not quite say that; but +frankly I can quite understand it. She preserves her youth so +wonderfully, and her fun and her good-nature are so entirely +girlish. What a sweet view you have selected,' he continued, +changing all at once. 'I've stood just at this point so often to +look back at that exquisite old bridge. Do you observe—you're +an artist, I see—something very peculiar in that tint of the grey, +with those odd cross stains of faded red and yellow?'</p> + +<p>'I do, indeed; I was just remarking the peculiar beauty of the +colouring—was not I, Milly?'</p> + +<p>Milly stared at me, and uttered an alarmed 'Yes,' and looked +as if she had been caught in a robbery.</p> + +<p>'Yes, and you have so very peculiar a background,' he resumed. +'It was better before the storm though; but it is very +good still.'</p> + +<p>Then a little pause, and 'Do you know this country at all?' +rather suddenly.</p> + +<p>'No, not in the least—that is, I've only had the drive to this +place; but what I did see interested me very much.'</p> + +<p>'You will be charmed with it when you know it better—the +very place for an artist. I'm a wretched scribbler myself, and I +carry this little book in my pocket,' and he laughed deprecatingly +while he drew forth a thin fishing-book, as it looked. +'They are mere memoranda, you see. I walk so much and come +unexpectedly on such pretty nooks and studies, I just try to +make a note of them, but it is really more writing than sketching; +my sister says it is a cipher which nobody but myself understands. +However, I'll try and explain just two—because you really +ought to go and see the places. Oh, no; not that,' he laughed, as +accidentally the page blew over, 'that's the Cat and Fiddle, a +curious little pot-house, where they gave me some very good ale +one day.'</p> + +<p>Milly at this exhibited some uneasy tokens of being about to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page219" id="page219"></a>[pg 211]</span> + +speak, but not knowing what might be coming, I hastened +to observe on the spirited little sketches to which he meant to +draw my attention.</p> + +<p>'I want to show you only the places within easy reach—a short +ride or drive.'</p> + +<p>So he proceeded to turn over two or three, in addition to the +two he had at first proposed, and then another; then a little +sketch just tinted, and really quite a charming little gem, of +Cousin Monica's pretty gabled old house; and every subject +had its little criticism, or its narrative, or adventure.</p> + +<p>As he was about returning this little sketch-book to his pocket, +still chatting to me, he suddenly recollected poor Milly, who was +looking rather lowering; but she brightened a good deal as he +presented it to her, with a little speech which she palpably misunderstood, +for she made one of her odd courtesies, and was +about, I thought, to put it into her large pocket, and accept it +as a present.</p> + +<p>'Look at the drawings, Milly, and then return it,' I whispered.</p> + +<p>At his request I allowed him to look at my unfinished sketch +of the bridge, and while he was measuring distances and proportions +with his eye, Milly whispered rather angrily to me.</p> + +<p>'And why should I?'</p> + +<p>'Because he wants it back, and only meant to lend it to you,' +whispered I.</p> + +<p>'<i>Lend</i> it to me—and after you! Bury-me-wick if I look at a +leaf of it,' she retorted in high dudgeon. 'Take it, lass; give it +him yourself—I'll not,' and she popped it into my hand, and +made a sulky step back.</p> + +<p>'My cousin is very much obliged,' I said, returning the book, +and smiling for her, and he took it smiling also and said—</p> + +<p>'I think if I had known how very well you draw, Miss +Ruthyn, I should have hesitated about showing you my poor +scrawls. But these are not my best, you know; Lady Knollys will +tell you that I can really do better—a great deal better, I think.'</p> + +<p>And then with more apologies for what he called his impertinence, +he took his leave, and I felt altogether very much pleased +and flattered.</p> + +<p>He could not be more than twenty-nine or thirty, I thought, +and he was decidedly handsome—that is, his eyes and teeth, and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page220" id="page220"></a>[pg 212]</span> + +clear brown complexion were—and there was something distinguished +and graceful in his figure and gesture; and altogether +there was the indescribable attraction of intelligence; and I +fancied—though this, of course, was a secret—that from the moment +he spoke to us he felt an interest in me. I am not going to be +vain. It was a <i>grave</i> interest, but still an interest, for I could +see him studying my features while I was turning over his +sketches, and he thought I saw nothing else. It was flattering, +too, his anxiety that I should think well of his drawing, and referring +me to Lady Knollys. Carysbroke—had I ever heard my +dear father mention that name? I could not recollect it. But +then he was habitually so silent, that his not doing so argued +nothing.</p> + +<a name="chap35"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXV</h3> + +<h2><i>WE VISIT A ROOM IN THE +SECOND STOREY</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Mr. Carysbroke amused my fancy sufficiently to prevent my observing +Milly's silence, till we had begun our return homeward.</p> + +<p>'The Grange must be a pretty house, if that little sketch be +true; is it far from this?'</p> + +<p>''Twill be two mile.'</p> + +<p>'Are you vexed, Milly?' I asked, for both her tone and looks +were angry.</p> + +<p>'Yes, I am vexed; and why not lass?'</p> + +<p>'What has happened?'</p> + +<p>'Well, now, that is rich! Why, look at that fellow, Carysbroke: +he took no more notice to me than a dog, and kep' +talking to you all the time of his pictures, and his walks, and his +people. Why, a pig's better manners than that.'</p> + +<p>'But, Milly dear, you forget, he tried to talk to you, and you +would not answer him,' I expostulated.</p> + +<p>'And is not that just what I say—I can't talk like other folk—ladies, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221" id="page221"></a>[pg 213]</span> + +I mean. Every one laughs at me; an' I'm dressed like a +show, I am. It's a shame! I saw Polly Shives—what a lady she +is, my eyes!—laughing at me in church last Sunday. I was +minded to give her a bit of my mind. An' I know I'm queer. +It's a shame, it is. Why should <i>I</i> be so rum? it is a shame! I +don't want to be so, nor it isn't my fault.'</p> + +<p>And poor Milly broke into a flood of tears, and stamped on +the ground, and buried her face in her short frock, which she +whisked up to her eyes; and an odder figure of grief I never +beheld.</p> + +<p>'And I could not make head or tail of what he was saying,' +cried poor Milly through her buff cotton, with a stamp; 'and +you twigged every word o't. An' why am I so? It's a shame—a +shame! Oh, ho, ho! it's a shame!'</p> + +<p>'But, my dear Milly, we were talking of <i>drawing</i>, and you +have not learned yet, but you shall—I'll teach you; and then +you'll understand all about it.'</p> + +<p>'An' every one laughs at me—even you; though you try, +Maud, you can scarce keep from laughing sometimes. I don't +blame you, for I know I'm queer; but I can't help it; and it's +a shame.'</p> + +<p>'Well, my dear Milly, listen to me: if you allow me, I assure +you, I'll teach you all the music and drawing I know. You have +lived very much alone; and, as you say, ladies have a way of +speaking of their own that is different from the talk of other +people.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, that they have, an' gentlemen too—like the Governor, +and that Carysbroke; and a precious lingo it is—dang it—why, +the devil himself could not understand it; an' I'm like a fool +among you. I could 'most drown myself. It's a shame! It is—you +know it is.—It's a shame!'</p> + +<p>'But I'll teach you that lingo too, if you wish it, Milly; and +you shall know everything that I know; and I'll manage to +have your dresses better made.'</p> + +<p>By this time she was looking very ruefully, but attentively, in +my face, her round eyes and nose swelled, and her cheeks all +wet.</p> + +<p>'I think if they were a little longer—yours is longer, you +know;' and the sentence was interrupted by a sob.</p> + +<p>'Now, Milly, you must not be crying; if you choose you + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page222" id="page222"></a>[pg 214]</span> + +may be just as the same as any other lady—and you shall; and +you will be very much admired, I can tell you, if only you will +take the trouble to quite unlearn all your odd words and ways, +and dress yourself like other people; and I will take care of +that if you let me; and I think you are very clever, Milly; and +I know you are very pretty.'</p> + +<p>Poor Milly's blubbered face expanded into a smile in spite +of herself; but she shook her head, looking down.</p> + +<p>'Noa, noa, Maud, I fear 'twon't be.' And indeed it seemed I +had proposed to myself a labour of Hercules.</p> + +<p>But Milly was really a clever creature, could see quickly, and +when her ungainly dialect was mastered, describe very pleasantly; +and if only she would endure the restraint and possessed +the industry requisite, I did not despair, and was resolved at +least to do my part.</p> + +<p>Poor Milly! she was really very grateful, and entered into the +project of her education with great zeal, and with a strange +mixture of humility and insubordination.</p> + +<p>Milly was in favour of again attacking 'Beauty's' position on +her return, and forcing a passage from this side; but I insisted +on following the route by which we had arrived, and so we got +round the paling by the river, and were treated to a provoking +grin of defiance by 'Beauty,' who was talking across the gate to +a slim young man, arrayed in fustian, and with an odd-looking +cap of rabbit-skin on his head, which, on seeing us, he pulled +sheepishly to the side of his face next to us, as he lounged, with +his arm under his chin, on the top bar of the gate.</p> + +<p>After our encounter of to-day, indeed, it was Miss 'Beauty's' +wont to exhibit a kind of jeering disdain in her countenance +whenever we passed.</p> + +<p>I think Milly would have engaged her again, had I not reminded +her of her undertaking, and exerted my new authority.</p> + +<p>'Look at that sneak, Pegtop, there, going up the path to the +mill. He makes belief now he does not see us; but he does, +though, only he's afraid we'll tell the Governor, and he thinks +Governor won't give him his way with you. I hate that Pegtop: +he stopped me o' riding the cows a year ago, he did.'</p> + +<p>I thought Pegtop might have done worse. Indeed it was plain +that a total reformation was needed here; and I was glad to +find that poor Milly seemed herself conscious of it; and that + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223" id="page223"></a>[pg 215]</span> + +her resolution to become more like other people of her station +was not a mere spasm of mortification and jealousy, but a genuine +and very zealous resolve.</p> + +<p>I had not half seen this old house of Bartram-Haugh yet. At +first, indeed, I had but an imperfect idea of its extent. There +was a range of rooms along one side of the great gallery, with +closed window-shutters, and the doors generally locked. Old +L'Amour grew cross when we went into them, although we +could see nothing; and Milly was afraid to open the windows—not +that any Bluebeard revelations were apprehended, but +simply because she knew that Uncle Silas's order was that things +should be left undisturbed; and this boisterous spirit stood in +awe of him to a degree which his gentle manners and apparent +quietude rendered quite surprising.</p> + +<p>There were in this house, what certainly did not exist at +Knowl, and what I have never observed, though they may possibly +be found in other old houses—I mean, here and there, very +high hatches, which we could only peep over by jumping in +the air. They crossed the long corridors and great galleries; +and several of them were turned across and locked, so as to +intercept the passage, and interrupt our explorations.</p> + +<p>Milly, however, knew a queer little, very steep and dark back +stair, which reached the upper floor; so she and I mounted, and +made a long ramble through rooms much lower and ruder in +finish than the lordly chambers we had left below. These commanded +various views of the beautiful though neglected +grounds; but on crossing a gallery we entered suddenly a chamber, +which looked into a small and dismal quadrangle, formed +by the inner walls of this great house, and of course designed +only by the architect to afford the needful light and air to portions +of the structure.</p> + +<p>I rubbed the window-pane with my handkerchief and looked +out. The surrounding roof was steep and high. The walls looked +soiled and dark. The windows lined with dust and dirt, and the +window-stones were in places tufted with moss, and grass, and +groundsel. An arched doorway had opened from the house into +this darkened square, but it was soiled and dusty; and the damp +weeds that overgrew the quadrangle drooped undisturbed +against it. It was plain that human footsteps tracked it little, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224" id="page224"></a>[pg 216]</span> + +and I gazed into that blind and sinister area with a strange +thrill and sinking.</p> + +<p>'This is the second floor—there is the enclosed court-yard'—I, +as it were, soliloquised.</p> + +<p>'What are you afraid of, Maud? you look as ye'd seen a +ghost,' exclaimed Milly, who came to the window and peeped +over my shoulder.</p> + +<p>'It reminded me suddenly, Milly, of that frightful business.'</p> + +<p>'What business, Maud?—what a plague are ye thinking on?' +demanded Milly, rather amused.</p> + +<p>'It was in one of these rooms—maybe this—yes, it certainly +<i>was</i> this—for see, the panelling has been pulled off the wall—that +Mr. Charke killed himself.'</p> + +<p>I was staring ruefully round the dim chamber, in whose corners +the shadows of night were already gathering.</p> + +<p>'Charke!—what about him?—who's Charke?' asked Milly.</p> + +<p>'Why, you must have heard of him,' said I.</p> + +<p>'Not as I'm aware on,' answered she. 'And he killed himself, +did he, hanged himself, eh, or blowed his brains out?'</p> + +<p>'He cut his throat in one of these rooms—<i>this</i> one, I'm sure—for +your papa had the wainscoting stripped from the wall to +ascertain whether there was any second door through which a +murderer could have come; and you see these walls are stripped, +and bear the marks of the woodwork that has been removed,' I +answered.</p> + +<p>'Well, that <i>was</i> awful! I don't know how they have pluck to +cut their throats; if I was doing it, I'd like best to put a pistol +to my head and fire, like the young gentleman did, they say, in +Deadman's Hollow. But the fellows that cut their throats, they +must be awful game lads, I'm thinkin', for it's a long slice, you +know.'</p> + +<p>'Don't, don't, Milly dear. Suppose we come away,' I said, for +the evening was deepening rapidly into night.</p> + +<p>'Hey and bury-me-wick, but here's the blood; don't you see a +big black cloud all spread over the floor hereabout, don't ye +see?' Milly was stooping over the spot, and tracing the outline +of this, perhaps, imaginary mapping, in the air with her finger.</p> + +<p>'No, Milly, you could not see it: the floor is too dark, and +it's all in shadow. It must be fancy; and perhaps, after all, this +is not the room.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page225" id="page225"></a>[pg 217]</span> + +<p>'Well—I think, I'm <i>sure</i> it <i>is</i>. Stand—just look.'</p> + +<p>'We'll come in the morning, and if you are right we can +see it better then. Come away,' I said, growing frightened.</p> + +<p>And just as we stood up to depart, the white high-cauled cap +and large sallow features of old L'Amour peeped in at the door.</p> + +<p>'Lawk! what brings you here?' cried Milly, nearly as much +startled as I at the intrusion.</p> + +<p>'What brings <i>you</i> here, miss?' whistled L'Amour through her +gums.</p> + +<p>'We're looking where Charke cut his throat,' replied Milly.</p> + +<p>'Charke the devil!' said the old woman, with an odd mixture +of scorn and fury. ''Tisn't his room; and come ye out of it, +please. Master won't like when he hears how you keep pulling +Miss Maud from one room to another, all through the house, +up and down.'</p> + +<p>She was gabbling sternly enough, but dropped a low courtesy +as I passed her, and with a peaked and nodding stare round the +room, the old woman clapped the door sharply, and locked it.</p> + +<p>'And who has been a talking about Charke—a pack o lies, I +warrant. I s'pose you want to frighten Miss Maud here' (another +crippled courtesy) 'wi' ghosts and like nonsense.'</p> + +<p>'You're out there: 'twas she told me; and much about it. +Ghosts, indeed! I don't vally them, not I; if I did, I know +who'd frighten me,' and Milly laughed.</p> + +<p>The old woman stuffed the key in her pocket, and her +wrinkled mouth pouted and receded with a grim uneasiness.</p> + +<p>'A harmless brat, and kind she is; but wild—wild—she will +be wild.'</p> + +<p>So whispered L'Amour in my ear, during the silence that followed, +nodding shakily toward Milly over the banister, and she +courtesied again as we departed, and shuffled off toward Uncle +Silas's room.</p> + +<p>'The Governor is queerish this evening,' said Milly, when we +were seated at our tea. 'You never saw him queerish, did you?'</p> + +<p>'You must say what you mean, more plainly, Milly. You +don't mean ill, I hope?'</p> + +<p>'Well! I don't know what it is; but he does grow very queer +sometimes—you'd think he was dead a'most, maybe two or three +days and nights together. He sits all the time like an old woman +in a swound. Well, well, it is awful!'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page226" id="page226"></a>[pg 218]</span> + +<p>'Is he insensible when in that state?' I asked, a good deal +alarmed.</p> + +<p>'I don't know; but it never signifies anything. It won't kill +him, I do believe; but old L'Amour knows all about it. I +hardly ever go into the room when he's so, only when I'm sent +for; and he sometimes wakes up and takes a fancy to call for +this one or that. One day he sent for Pegtop all the way to the +mill; and when he came, he only stared at him for a minute +or two, and ordered him out o' the room. He's like a child +a'most, when he's in one o' them dazes.'</p> + +<p>I always knew when Uncle Silas was 'queerish,' by the injunctions +of old L'Amour, whistled and spluttered over the +banister as we came up-stairs, to mind how we made a noise +passing master's door; and by the sound of mysterious to-ings +and fro-ings about his room.</p> + +<p>I saw very little of him. He sometimes took a whim to have +us breakfast with him, which lasted perhaps for a week; and +then the order of our living would relapse into its old routine.</p> + +<p>I must not forget two kind letters from Lady Knollys, who +was detained away, and delighted to hear that I enjoyed my +quiet life; and promised to apply, in person, to Uncle Silas, for +permission to visit me.</p> + +<p>She was to be for the Christmas at Elverston, and that was +only six miles away from Bartram-Haugh, so I had the excitement +of a pleasant look forward.</p> + +<p>She also said that she would include poor Milly in her invitation; +and a vision of Captain Oakley rose before me, with his +handsome gaze turned in wonder on poor Milly, for whom I +had begun to feel myself responsible.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227" id="page227"></a>[pg 219]</span> + +<a name="chap36"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXVI</h3> + +<h2><i>AN ARRIVAL AT DEAD OF NIGHT</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I have sometimes been asked why I wear an odd little turquois +ring—which to the uninstructed eye appears quite valueless and +altogether an unworthy companion of those jewels which flash +insultingly beside it. It is a little keepsake, of which I became +possessed about this time.</p> + +<p>'Come, lass, what name shall I give you?' cried Milly, one +morning, bursting into my room in a state of alarming hilarity.</p> + +<p>'My own, Milly.'</p> + +<p>'No, but you must have a nickname, like every one else.'</p> + +<p>'Don't mind it, Milly.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, but I will. Shall I call you Mrs. Bustle?'</p> + +<p>'You shall do no such thing.'</p> + +<p>'But you must have a name.'</p> + +<p>'I refuse a name.'</p> + +<p>'But I'll give you one, lass.'</p> + +<p>'And <i>I</i> won't have it.'</p> + +<p>'But you can't help me christening you.'</p> + +<p>'I can decline answering.'</p> + +<p>'But I'll make you,' said Milly, growing very red.</p> + +<p>Perhaps there was something provoking in my tone, for I +certainly was very much disgusted at Milly's relapse into barbarism.</p> + +<p>'You can't,' I retorted quietly.</p> + +<p>'See if I don't, and I'll give ye one twice as ugly.'</p> + +<p>I smiled, I fear, disdainfully.</p> + +<p>'And I think you're a minx, and a slut, and a fool,' she broke +out, flushing scarlet.</p> + +<p>I smiled in the same unchristian way.</p> + +<p>'And I'd give ye a smack o' the cheek as soon as look at you.'</p> + +<p>And she gave her dress a great slap, and drew near me, in her + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page228" id="page228"></a>[pg 220]</span> + +wrath. I really thought she was about tendering the ordeal of +single combat.</p> + +<p>I made her, however, a paralysing courtesy, and, with immense +dignity, sailed out of the room, and into Uncle Silas's +study, where it happened we were to breakfast that morning, +and for several subsequent ones.</p> + +<p>During the meal we maintained the most dignified reserve; +and I don't think either so much as looked at the other.</p> + +<p>We had no walk together that day.</p> + +<p>I was sitting in the evening, quite alone, when Milly entered +the room. Her eyes were red, and she looked very sullen.</p> + +<p>'I want your hand, cousin,' she said, at the same time taking +it by the wrist, and administering with it a sudden slap on her +plump cheek, which made the room ring, and my fingers tingle; +and before I had recovered from my surprise, she had vanished.</p> + +<p>I called after her, but no answer; I pursued, but she was running +too; and I quite lost her at the cross galleries.</p> + +<p>I did not see her at tea, nor before going to bed; but after I +had fallen asleep I was awakened by Milly, in floods of tears.</p> + +<p>'Cousin Maud, will ye forgi' me—you'll never like me again, +will ye? No—I know ye won't—I'm such a brute—I hate it—it's +a shame. And here's a Banbury cake for you—I sent to the +town for it, and some taffy—won't ye eat it? and here's a little +ring—'tisn't as pretty as your own rings; and ye'll wear it, +maybe, for my sake—poor Milly's sake, before I was so bad to ye—if +ye forgi' me; and I'll look at breakfast, and if it's on your +finger I'll know you're friends wi' me again; and if ye don't, I +won't trouble you no more; and I think I'll just drown myself +out o' the way, and you'll never see wicked Milly no more.'</p> + +<p>And without waiting a moment, leaving me only half awake, +and with the sensations of dreaming, she scampered from the +room, in her bare feet, with a petticoat about her shoulders.</p> + +<p>She had left her candle by my bed, and her little offerings on +the coverlet by me. If I had stood an atom less in terror of goblins +than I did, I should have followed her, but I was afraid. I +stood in my bare feet at my bedside, and kissed the poor little +ring and put it on my finger, where it has remained ever since +and always shall. And when I lay down, longing for morning, +the image of her pale, imploring, penitential face was before me +for hours; and I repented bitterly of my cool provoking ways, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page229" id="page229"></a>[pg 221]</span> + +and thought myself, I dare say justly, a thousand times more to +blame than Milly.</p> + +<p>I searched in vain for her before breakfast. At that meal, however, +we met, but in the presence of Uncle Silas, who, though +silent and apathetic, was formidable; and we, sitting at a table +disproportionably large, under the cold, strange gaze of my +guardian, talked only what was inevitable, and that in low +tones; for whenever Milly for a moment raised her voice, Uncle +Silas would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his +ear, and look as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug +and smile piteously into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, +was not in the talking vein himself—and that was not often—you +may suppose there was very little spoken in his presence.</p> + +<p>When Milly, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, +she, drawing in her breath, said, 'Oh!' and, with round eyes +and mouth, she looked so delighted; and she made a little motion, +as if she was on the point of jumping up; and then her +poor face quivered, and she bit her lip; and staring imploringly +at me, her eyes filled fast with tears, which rolled down her +round penitential cheeks.</p> + +<p>I am sure I felt more penitent than she. I know I was crying +and smiling, and longing to kiss her. I suppose we were very +absurd; but it is well that small matters can stir the affections +so profoundly at a time of life when great troubles seldom approach +us.</p> + +<p>When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a +hug out of the wrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, +swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress, +and blubbering—</p> + +<p>'I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and +I such a devil; and I'll never call you a name, but Maud—my +darling Maud.'</p> + +<p>'You must, Milly—Mrs. Bustle. I'll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like. +You must.' I was blubbering like Milly, and +hugging my best; and, indeed, I wonder how we kept our feet.</p> + +<p>So Milly and I were better friends than ever.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and +long nights, and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh. I +was frightened at the frequency of the strange collapses to which + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page230" id="page230"></a>[pg 222]</span> + +Uncle Silas was subject. I did not at first mind them much, for +I naturally fell into Milly's way of talking about them.</p> + +<p>But one day, while in one of his 'queerish' states, he called +for me, and I saw him, and was unspeakably scared.</p> + +<p>In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I +should have thought him dead, had I not been accompanied by +old L'Amour, who knew every gradation and symptom of these +strange affections.</p> + +<p>She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, +and whispered—</p> + +<p>'Don't make no noise, miss, till he talks; he'll come to for +a bit, anon.'</p> + +<p>Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance +was like that of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions.</p> + +<p>There was a frown and smirk like that of idiotcy, and a strip +of white eyeball was also disclosed.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, with a kind of chilly shudder, he opened his eyes +wide, and screwed his lips together, and blinked and stared on +me with a fatuised uncertainty, that gradually broke into a +feeble smile.</p> + +<p>'Ah! the girl—Austin's child. Well, dear, I'm hardly able—I'll +speak to-morrow—next day—it is tic—neuralgia, or +something—<i>torture</i>—tell her.'</p> + +<p>So, huddling himself together, he lay again in his great +chair, with the same inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, +and gradually his face resumed its dreadful cast.</p> + +<p>'Come away, miss: he's changed his mind; he'll not be fit to +talk to you noways all day, maybe,' said the old woman, again +in a whisper.</p> + +<p>So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked. In +fact, he looked as if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I +told the crone, who, forgetting the ceremony with which she +usually treated me, chuckled out derisively,</p> + +<p>'A-dying is he? Well, he be like Saint Paul—he's bin a-dying +daily this many a day.'</p> + +<p>I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, what +sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on +mumbling sarcastically to herself. I had paused, and overcame +my reluctance to speak to her again, for I was really very much +frightened.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page231" id="page231"></a>[pg 223]</span> + +<p>'Do you think he is in danger? Shall we send for a doctor?' +I whispered.</p> + +<p>'Law bless ye, the doctor knows all about it, miss.' The old +woman's face had a gleam of that derision which is so shocking +in the features of feebleness and age.</p> + +<p>'But it is a <i>fit</i>, it is paralytic, or something horrible—it can't +be <i>safe</i> to leave him to chance or nature to get through these +terrible attacks.'</p> + +<p>'There's no fear of him, 'tisn't no fits at all, he's nout the +worse o't. Jest silly a bit now and again. It's been the same a +dozen year and more; and the doctor knows all about it,' answered +the old woman sturdily. 'And ye'll find he'll be as mad +as bedlam if ye make any stir about it.'</p> + +<p>That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince.</p> + +<p>'They're very dark, miss; but I think he takes a deal too +much laudlum,' said Mary.</p> + +<p>To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. +I have often spoken to medical men about +them, since, but never could learn that excessive use of opium +could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, +however, that he did use that drug in startling quantities. It was, +indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him that his neuralgia +imposed this sad necessity upon him.</p> + +<p>The image of Uncle Silas, as I had seen him that day, troubled +and affrighted my imagination, as I lay in my bed; I had +slept very well since my arrival at Bartram. So much of the day +was passed in the open air, and in active exercise, that this +was but natural. But that night I was nervous and wakeful, +and it was past two o'clock when I fancied I heard the sound of +horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue.</p> + +<p>Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to +get up and peep from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw +a post-chaise approach the court-yard. A front window was let +down, and the postilion pulled up for a few seconds.</p> + +<p>In consequence of some directions received by him, I fancied +he resumed his route at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door, +on the steps of which a figure awaited his arrival. I think it was +old L'Amour, but I could not be quite certain. There was a +lantern on the top of the balustrade, close by the door. The +chaise-lamps were lighted, for the night was rather dark.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page232" id="page232"></a>[pg 224]</span> + +<p>A bag and valise, as well as I could see, were pulled from the +interior by the post-boy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, +and these were carried into the hall.</p> + +<p>I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to +command a view of the point of debarkation, and my breath +upon the glass, which dimmed it again almost as fast as I wiped +it away, helped to obscure my vision. But I saw a tall figure, in +a cloak, get down and swiftly enter the house, but whether male +or female I could not discern.</p> + +<p>My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My +uncle was worse—was, in fact, dying; and this was the physician, +too late summoned to his bedside.</p> + +<p>I listened for the ascent of the doctor, and his entrance at my +uncle's door, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I +might easily hear, but no sound reached me. I listened so for +fully five minutes, but without result. I returned to the window, +but the carriage and horses had disappeared.</p> + +<p>I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince, and take counsel with her, and +persuade her to undertake a reconnoissance. +The fact is, I was persuaded that my uncle was in extremity, +and I was quite wild to know the doctor's opinion. But, after +all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from her refreshing nap. So, +as I began to feel very cold, I returned to my +bed, where I continued to listen and conjecture until I fell +asleep.</p> + +<p>In the morning, as was usual, before I was dressed, in came +Milly.</p> + +<p>'How is Uncle Silas?' I eagerly enquired.</p> + +<p>'Old L'Amour says he's queerish still; but he's not so dull +as yesterday,' answered she.</p> + +<p>'Was not the doctor sent for?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Was he? Well, that's odd; and she said never a word o't +to me,' answered she.</p> + +<p>'I'm asking only,' said I.</p> + +<p>'I don't know whether he came or no,' she replied; 'but what +makes you take that in your head?'</p> + +<p>'A chaise arrived here between two and three o'clock last +night.'</p> + +<p>'Hey! and who told you?' Milly seemed all on a sudden +highly interested.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page233" id="page233"></a>[pg 225]</span> + +<p>'I saw it, Milly; and some one, I fancy the doctor, came from +it into the house.'</p> + +<p>'Fudge, lass! who'd send for the doctor? 'Twasn't he, I tell +you. What was he like?' said Milly.</p> + +<p>'I could only see clearly that he, or <i>she</i>, was tall, and wore a +cloak,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'Then 'twasn't him nor t'other I was thinking on, neither; +and I'll be hanged but I think it will be Cormoran,' cried Milly, +with a thoughtful rap with her knuckle on the table.</p> + +<p>Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door.</p> + +<p>'Come in,' said I.</p> + +<p>And old L'Amour entered the room, with a courtesy.</p> + +<p>'I came to tell Miss Quince her breakfast's ready,' said the +old lady.</p> + +<p>'Who came in the chaise, L'Amour?' demanded Milly.</p> + +<p>'What chaise?' spluttered the beldame tartly.</p> + +<p>'The chaise that came last night, past two o'clock,' said Milly.</p> + +<p>'That's a lie, and a damn lie!' cried the beldame. 'There +worn't no chaise at the door since Miss Maud there come from +Knowl.'</p> + +<p>I stared at the audacious old menial who could utter such +language.</p> + +<p>'Yes, there was a chaise, and Cormoran, as I think, be come +in it,' said Milly, who seemed accustomed to L'Amour's daring +address.</p> + +<p>'And there's another damn lie, as big as the t'other,' said the +crone, her haggard and withered face flushing orange all over.</p> + +<p>'I beg you will not use such language in my room,' I replied, +very angrily. 'I saw the chaise at the door; your untruth signifies +very little, but your impertinence here I will not permit. +Should it be repeated, I will assuredly complain to my uncle.'</p> + +<p>The old woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed +her bleared glare on me, with a compression of her mouth that +amounted to a wicked grimace. She resisted her angry impulse, +however, and only chuckled a little spitefully, saying,</p> + +<p>'No offence, miss: it be a way we has in Derbyshire o' speaking +our minds. No offence, miss, were meant, and none took, as +I hopes,' and she made me another courtesy.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page234" id="page234"></a>[pg 226]</span> + +<p>'And I forgot to tell you, Miss Milly, the master wants +you this minute.'</p> + +<p>So Milly, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by L'Amour.</p> + +<a name="chap37"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXVII</h3> + +<h2><i>DOCTOR BRYERLY EMERGES</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>When Milly joined me at breakfast, her eyes were red and +swollen. She was still sniffing with that little sobbing hiccough, +which betrays, even were there no other signs, recent violent +weeping. She sat down quite silent.</p> + +<p>'Is he worse, Milly?' I enquired, anxiously.</p> + +<p>'No, nothing's wrong wi' him; he's right well,' said Milly, +fiercely.</p> + +<p>'What's the matter then, Milly dear?'</p> + +<p>'The poisonous old witch! 'Twas just to tell the Gov'nor how +I'd said 'twas Cormoran that came by the po'shay last night.'</p> + +<p>'And who is Cormoran?' I enquired.</p> + +<p>'Ay, there it is; I'd like to tell, and you want to hear—and +I just daren't, for he'll send me off right to a French +school—hang it—hang them all!—if I do.'</p> + +<p>'And why should Uncle Silas care?' said I, a good deal surprised.</p> + +<p>'They're a-tellin' lies.'</p> + +<p>'Who?' said I.</p> + +<p>'L'Amour—that's who. So soon as she made her complaint of +me, the Gov'nor asked her, sharp enough, did anyone come +last night, or a po'shay; and she was ready to swear there was +no one. Are ye quite sure, Maud, you really did see aught, or +'appen 'twas all a dream?'</p> + +<p>'It was no dream, Milly; so sure as you are there, I saw +exactly what I told you,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'Gov'nor won't believe it anyhow; and he's right mad wi' + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page235" id="page235"></a>[pg 227]</span> + +me; and he threatens me he'll have me off to France; I wish +'twas under the sea. I hate France—I do—like the devil. Don't +you? They're always a-threatening me wi' France, if I dare say +a word more about the po'shay, or—or anyone.'</p> + +<p>I really was curious about Cormoran; but Cormoran was not +to be defined to me by Milly; nor did she, in reality, know +more than I respecting the arrival of the night before.</p> + +<p>One day I was surprised to see Doctor Bryerly on the stairs. +I was standing in a dark gallery as he walked across the floor +of the lobby to my uncle's door, his hat on, and some papers +in his hand.</p> + +<p>He did not see me; and when he had entered Uncle Silas's +door, I went down and found Milly awaiting me in the hall.</p> + +<p>'So Doctor Bryerly is here,' I said.</p> + +<p>'That's the thin fellow, wi' the sharp look, and the shiny +black coat, that went up just now?' asked Milly.</p> + +<p>'Yes, he's gone into your papa's room,' said I.</p> + +<p>''Appen 'twas he come 'tother night. He may be staying +here, though we see him seldom, for it's a barrack of a house—it +is.'</p> + +<p>The same thought had struck me for a moment, but was +dismissed immediately. It certainly was <i>not</i> Doctor Bryerly's +figure which I had seen.</p> + +<p>So, without any new light gathered from this apparition, we +went on our way, and made our little sketch of the ruined +bridge. We found the gate locked as before; and, as Milly +could not persuade me to climb it, we got round the paling by +the river's bank.</p> + +<p>While at our drawing, we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks, +and old weather-stained red coat of Zamiel, who was glowering +malignly at us from among the trunks of the forest trees, and +standing motionless as a monumental figure in the side aisle of +a cathedral. When we looked again he was gone.</p> + +<p>Although it was a fine mild day for the wintry season, we yet, +cloaked as we were, could not pursue so still an occupation as +sketching for more than ten or fifteen minutes. As we returned, +in passing a clump of trees, we heard a sudden outbreak of +voices, angry and expostulatory; and saw, under the trees, the +savage old Zamiel strike his daughter with his stick two great +blows, one of which was across the head. 'Beauty' ran only a + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page236" id="page236"></a>[pg 228]</span> + +short distance away, while the swart old wood-demon stumped +lustily after her, cursing and brandishing his cudgel.</p> + +<p>My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could +not speak; but in a moment more I screamed—</p> + +<p>'You brute! How dare you strike the poor girl?'</p> + +<p>She had only run a few steps, and turned about confronting +him and us, her eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering +to suppress a burst of weeping. Two little rivulets of +blood were trickling over her temple.</p> + +<p>'I say, fayther, look at that,' she said, with a strange tremulous +smile, lifting her hand, which was smeared with blood.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he was ashamed, and the more enraged on that account, +for he growled another curse, and started afresh to reach +her, whirling his stick in the air. Our voices, however, arrested +him.</p> + +<p>'My uncle shall hear of your brutality. The poor girl!'</p> + +<p>'Strike him, Meg, if he does it again; and pitch his leg into +the river to-night, when he's asleep.'</p> + +<p>'I'd serve <i>you</i> the same;' and out came an oath. 'You'd have +her lick her fayther, would ye? Look out!'</p> + +<p>And he wagged his head with a scowl at Milly, and a flourish +of his cudgel.</p> + +<p>'Be quiet, Milly,' I whispered, for Milly was preparing for +battle; and I again addressed him with the assurance that, on +reaching home, I would tell my uncle how he had treated the +poor girl.</p> + +<p>''Tis you she may thank for't, a wheedling o' her to open +that gate,' he snarled.</p> + +<p>'That's a lie; we went round by the brook,' cried Milly.</p> + +<p>I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him; and +looking very angry, and, I thought, a little put out, he jerked +and swayed himself out of sight. I merely repeated my promise +of informing my uncle as he went, to which, over his shoulder, +he bawled—</p> + +<p>'Silas won't mind ye <i>that</i>;' snapping his horny finger and +thumb.</p> + +<p>The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood +off roughly with the palm of her hand, and looking at it before +she rubbed it on her apron.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page237" id="page237"></a>[pg 229]</span> + +<p>'My poor girl,' I said, 'you must not cry. I'll speak to my +uncle about you.'</p> + +<p>But she was not crying. She raised her head, and looked at us +a little askance, with a sullen contempt, I thought.</p> + +<p>'And you must have these apples—won't you?' We had +brought in our basket two or three of those splendid apples for +which Bartram was famous.</p> + +<p>I hesitated to go near her, these Hawkeses, Beauty and Pegtop, +were such savages. So I rolled the apples gently along the ground +to her feet.</p> + +<p>She continued to look doggedly at us with the same expression, and kicked +away the apples sullenly that approached her +feet. Then, wiping her temple and forehead in her apron, without +a word, she turned and walked slowly away.</p> + +<p>'Poor thing! I'm afraid she leads a hard life. What strange, +repulsive people they are!'</p> + +<p>When we reached home, at the head of the great staircase +old L'Amour was awaiting me; and with a courtesy, and very +respectfully, she informed me that the Master would be happy +to see me.</p> + +<p>Could it be about my evidence as to the arrival of the mysterious chaise +that he summoned me to this interview? Gentle as +were his ways, there was something undefinable about Uncle +Silas which inspired fear; and I should have liked few things +less than meeting his gaze in the character of a culprit.</p> + +<p>There was an uncertainty, too, as to the state in which I +might find him, and a positive horror of beholding him again +in the condition in which I had last seen him.</p> + +<p>I entered the room, then, in some trepidation, but was instantly relieved. +Uncle Silas was in the same health apparently, +and, as nearly as I could recollect it, in precisely the same rather +handsome though negligent garb in which I had first seen him.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly—what a marked and vulgar contrast, and yet, +somehow, how reassuring!—sat at the table near him, and was +tying up papers. His eyes watched me, I thought, with an +anxious scrutiny as I approached; and I think it was not until +I had saluted him that he recollected suddenly that he had not +seen me before at Bartram, and stood up and greeted me in his +usual abrupt and somewhat familiar way. It was vulgar and not +cordial, and yet it was honest and indefinably kind.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page238" id="page238"></a>[pg 230]</span> + +<p>Up rose my uncle, that strangely venerable, pale portrait, in +his loose Rembrandt black velvet. How gentle, how benignant, +how unearthly, and inscrutable!</p> + +<p>'I need not say how she is. Those lilies and roses, Doctor +Bryerly, speak their own beautiful praises of the air of Bartram. +I almost regret that her carriage will be home so soon. I only +hope it may not abridge her rambles. It positively does me +good to look at her. It is the glow of flowers in winter, and the +fragrance of a field which the Lord hath blessed.'</p> + +<p>'Country air, Miss Ruthyn, is a right good kitchen to country +fare. I like to see young women eat heartily. You have had some +pounds of beef and mutton since I saw you last,' said Dr. Bryerly.</p> + +<p>And this sly speech made, he scrutinised my countenance in +silence rather embarrassingly.</p> + +<p>'My system, Doctor Bryerly, as a disciple of Aesculapius you +will approve—health first, accomplishment afterwards. The +Continent is the best field for elegant instruction, and we must +see the world a little, by-and-by, Maud; and to me, if my health +be spared, there would be an unspeakable though a melancholy +charm in the scenes where so many happy, though so many +wayward and foolish, young days were passed; and I think I +should return to these picturesque solitudes with, perhaps, an +increased relish. You remember old Chaulieu's sweet lines—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Désert, aimable solitude,</p> +<p>Séjour du calme et de la paix,</p> +<p>Asile où n'entrèrent jamais</p> +<p>Le tumulte et l'inquiétude.</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>I can't say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated +these sylvan fastnesses; but the tumults of the world, thank +Heaven!—never.'</p> + +<p>There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Doctor Bryerly's +sharp face; and hardly waiting for the impressive 'never,' he +said—</p> + +<p>'I forgot to ask, who is your banker?'</p> + +<p>'Oh! Bartlet and Hall, Lombard Street,' answered Uncle +Silas, dryly and shortly.</p> + +<p>Dr. Bryerly made a note of it, with an expression of face + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page239" id="page239"></a>[pg 231]</span> + +which seemed, with a sly resolution, to say, 'You shan't come +the anchorite over me.'</p> + +<p>I saw Uncle Silas's wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on +me for a moment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of +Doctor Bryerly's almost interruption; and, nearly at the same +moment, stuffing his papers into his capacious coat pockets, +Doctor Bryerly rose and took his leave.</p> + +<p>When he was gone, I bethought me that now was a good +opportunity of making my complaint of Dickon Hawkes. Uncle +Silas having risen, I hesitated, and began,</p> + +<p>'Uncle, may I mention an occurrence—which I witnessed?'</p> + +<p>'Certainly, child,' he answered, fixing his eye sharply on me. +I really think he fancied that the conversation was about to +turn upon the phantom chaise.</p> + +<p>So I described the scene which had shocked Milly and me, an +hour or so ago, in the Windmill Wood.</p> + +<p>'You see, my dear child, they are rough persons; their ideas +are not ours; their young people must be chastised, and in a +way and to a degree that we would look upon in a serious light. +I've found it a bad plan interfering in strictly domestic +misunderstandings, and should rather not.'</p> + +<p>'But he struck her violently on the head, uncle, with a heavy +cudgel, and she was bleeding very fast.'</p> + +<p>'Ah?' said my uncle, dryly.</p> + +<p>'And only that Milly and I deterred him by saying that we +would certainly tell you, he would have struck her again; and +I really think if he goes on treating her with so much violence +and cruelty he may injure her seriously, or perhaps kill her.'</p> + +<p>'Why, you romantic little child, people in that rank of life +think absolutely nothing of a broken head,' answered Uncle +Silas, in the same way.</p> + +<p>'But is it not horrible brutality, uncle?'</p> + +<p>'To be sure it is brutality; but then you must remember +they are brutes, and it suits them,' said he.</p> + +<p>I was disappointed. I had fancied that Uncle Silas's gentle +nature would have recoiled from such an outrage with horror +and indignation; and instead, here he was, the apologist of +that savage ruffian, Dickon Hawkes.</p> + +<p>'And he is always so rude and impertinent to Milly and to +me,' I continued.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page240" id="page240"></a>[pg 232]</span> + +<p>'Oh! impertinent to you—that's another matter. I must see +to that. Nothing more, my dear child?'</p> + +<p>'Well, there <i>was</i> nothing more.'</p> + +<p>'He's a useful servant, Hawkes; and though his looks are not +prepossessing, and his ways and language rough, yet he is a very +kind father, and a most honest man—a thoroughly moral man, +though severe—a very rough diamond though, and has no idea +of the refinements of polite society. I venture to say he honestly +believes that he has been always unexceptionably polite to you, +so we must make allowances.'</p> + +<p>And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin aged hand, +and kissed my forehead.</p> + +<p>'Yes, we must make allowances; we must be kind. What says +the Book?—"Judge not, that ye be not judged." Your dear +father acted upon that maxim—so noble and so awful—and I +strive to do so. Alas! dear Austin, <i>longo intervalle</i>, far behind! +and you are removed—my example and my help; you are gone +to your rest, and I remain beneath my burden, still marching +on by bleak and alpine paths, under the awful night.</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>O nuit, nuit douloureuse! O toi, tardive aurore!</p> +<p>Viens-tu? vas-tu venir? es-tu bien loin encore?</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>And repeating these lines of Chenier, with upturned eyes, +and one hand lifted, and an indescribable expression of grief +and fatigue, he sank stiffly into his chair, and remained mute, +with eyes closed for some time. Then applying his scented handkerchief +to them hastily, and looking very kindly at me, he +said—</p> + +<p>'Anything more, dear child?'</p> + +<p>'Nothing, uncle, thank you, very much, only about that man, +Hawkes; I dare say that he does not mean to be so uncivil as +he is, but I am really afraid of him, and he makes our walks +in that direction quite unpleasant.'</p> + +<p>'I understand quite, my dear. I will see to it; and you must +remember that nothing is to be allowed to vex my beloved niece +and ward during her stay at Bartram—nothing that her old kinsman, +Silas Ruthyn, can remedy.'</p> + +<p>So with a tender smile, and a charge to shut the door 'perfectly, +but without clapping it,' he dismissed me.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page241" id="page241"></a>[pg 233]</span> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly had not slept at Bartram, but at the little inn +in Feltram, and he was going direct to London, as I afterwards +learned.</p> + +<p>'Your ugly doctor's gone away in a fly,' said Milly, as we met +on the stairs, she running up, I down.</p> + +<p>On reaching the little apartment which was our sitting-room, +however, I found that she was mistaken; for Doctor Bryerly, +with his hat and a great pair of woollen gloves on, and an old +Oxford grey surtout that showed his lank length to advantage, +buttoned all the way up to his chin, had set down his black +leather bag on the table, and was reading at the window a little +volume which I had borrowed from my uncle's library.</p> + +<p>It was Swedenborg's account of the other worlds, Heaven +and Hell.</p> + +<p>He closed it on his finger as I entered, and without recollecting +to remove his hat, he made a step or two towards me with +his splay, creaking boots. With a quick glance at the door, he +said—</p> + +<p>'Glad to see you alone for a minute—very glad.'</p> + +<p>But his countenance, on the contrary, looked very anxious.</p> + +<a name="chap38"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h3> + +<h2><i>A MIDNIGHT DEPARTURE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'I'm going this minute—I—I want to know'—another glance +at the door—'are you really quite comfortable here?'</p> + +<p>'Quite,' I answered promptly.</p> + +<p>'You have only your cousin's company?' he continued, glancing +at the table, which was laid for two.</p> + +<p>'Yes; but Milly and I are very happy together.'</p> + +<p>'That's very nice; but I think there are no teachers, you +see—painters, and singers, and that sort of thing that is usual with +young ladies. No teachers of that kind—of <i>any</i> kind—are +there?' +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page242" id="page242"></a>[pg 234]</span> +'No; my uncle thinks it better I should lay in a store of +health, he says.'</p> + +<p>'I know; and the carriage and horses have not come; how +soon are they expected?'</p> + +<p>'I really can't say, and I assure you I don't much care. I think +running about great fun.'</p> + +<p>'You walk to church?'</p> + +<p>'Yes; Uncle Silas's carriage wants a new wheel, he told me.'</p> + +<p>'Ay, but a young woman of your rank, you know, it is not +usual she should be without the use of a carriage. Have you +horses to ride?'</p> + +<p>I shook my head.</p> + +<p>'Your uncle, you know, has a very liberal allowance for your +maintenance and education.'</p> + +<p>I remembered something in the will about it, and Mary +Quince was constantly grumbling that 'he did not spend a +pound a week on our board.'</p> + +<p>I answered nothing, but looked down.</p> + +<p>Another glance at the door from Doctor Bryerly's sharp black +eyes.</p> + +<p>'Is he kind to you?'</p> + +<p>'Very kind—most gentle and affectionate.'</p> + +<p>'Why doesn't he keep company with you? Does he ever dine +with you, or drink tea, or talk to you? Do you see much of +him?'</p> + +<p>'He is a miserable invalid—his hours and regimen are peculiar. +Indeed I wish very much you would consider his case; he +is, I believe, often insensible for a long time, and his mind in +a strange feeble state sometimes.'</p> + +<p>'I dare say—worn out in his young days; and I saw that +preparation of opium in his bottle—he takes too much.'</p> + +<p>'Why do you think so, Doctor Bryerly?'</p> + +<p>'It's made on water: the spirit interferes with the use of it +beyond a certain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can +swallow. Read the "Opium Eater." I knew two cases in which +the quantity exceeded De Quincy's. Aha! it's new to you?' and +he laughed quietly at my simplicity.</p> + +<p>'And what do you think his complaint is?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Pooh! I haven't a notion; but, probably, one way or another, +he has been all his days working on his nerves and his + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page243" id="page243"></a>[pg 235]</span> + +brain. These men of pleasure, who have no other pursuit, use +themselves up mostly, and pay a smart price for their sins. And +so he's kind and affectionate, but hands you over to your cousin +and the servants. Are his people civil and obliging?'</p> + +<p>'Well, I can't say much for them; there is a man named +Hawkes, and his daughter, who are very rude, and even abusive +sometimes, and say they have orders from my uncle to shut us +out from a portion of the grounds; but I don't believe that, for +Uncle Silas never alluded to it when I was making my complaint +of them to-day.'</p> + +<p>'From what part of the grounds is that?' asked Doctor +Bryerly, sharply.</p> + +<p>I described the situation as well as I could.</p> + +<p>'Can we see it from this?' he asked, peeping from the window.</p> + +<p>'Oh, no.'</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly made a note in his pocket-book here, and I +said—</p> + +<p>'But I am really quite sure it was a story of Dickon's, he is +such a surly, disobliging man.'</p> + +<p>'And what sort is that old servant that came in and out of +his room?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, that is old L'Amour,' I answered, rather indirectly, and +forgetting that I was using Milly's nickname.</p> + +<p>'And is <i>she</i> civil?' he asked.</p> + +<p>No, she certainly was not; a most disagreeable old woman, +with a vein of wickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing.</p> + +<p>'They don't seem to be a very engaging lot,' said Doctor +Bryerly; 'but where there's one, there will be more. See here, +I was just reading a passage,' and he opened the little volume +at the place where his finger marked it, and read for me a few +sentences, the purport of which I well remember, although, of +course, the words have escaped me.</p> + +<p>It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to +describe the condition of the condemned; and it said that, independently +of the physical causes in that state operating to +enforce community of habitation, and an isolation from superior +spirits, there exist sympathies, aptitudes, and necessities which +would, of themselves, induce that depraved gregariousness, and +isolation too.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page244" id="page244"></a>[pg 236]</span> + +<p>'And what of the rest of the servants, are they better?' he +resumed.</p> + +<p>We saw little or nothing of the others, except of old 'Giblets,' +the butler, who went about like a little automaton of dry bones, +poking here and there, and whispering and smiling to himself +as he laid the cloth; and seeming otherwise quite unconscious +of an external world.</p> + +<p>'This room is not got up like Mr. Ruthyn's: does he talk of +furnishings and making things a little smart? No! Well, I must +say, I think he might.'</p> + +<p>Here there was a little silence, and Doctor Bryerly, with his +accustomed simultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious +tones, very distinctly—</p> + +<p>'Have you been thinking at all over that matter again, I mean +about getting your uncle to forego his guardianship? I would +not mind his first refusal. You could make it worth his while, +unless he—that is—unless he's very unreasonable indeed; and I +think you would consult your interest, Miss Ruthyn, by doing +so and, if possible, getting out of this place.'</p> + +<p>'But I have not thought of it at all; I am much happier here +than I had at all expected, and I am very fond of my cousin +Milly.'</p> + +<p>'How long have you been here exactly?'</p> + +<p>I told him. It was some two or three months.</p> + +<p>'Have you seen your other cousin yet—the young gentleman?'</p> + +<p>'No.'</p> + +<p>'H'm! Aren't you very lonely?' he enquired.</p> + +<p>'We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared +for.'</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently +and peevishly, and tapped the sole lightly on the ground.</p> + +<p>'Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You'd be +pleasanter somewhere else—with Lady Knollys, for instance, eh?'</p> + +<p>'Well, <i>there</i> certainly. But I am very well here: really the +time passes very pleasantly; and my uncle is so kind. I have +only to mention anything that annoys me, and he will see that +it is remedied: he is always impressing that on me.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, it is not a fit place for you,' said Doctor Bryerly. 'Of +course, about your uncle,' he resumed, observing my surprised +look, 'it is all right: but he's quite helpless, you know. At all + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page245" id="page245"></a>[pg 237]</span> + +events, <i>think</i> about it. Here's my address—Hans Emmanuel +Bryerly, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London—don't +lose it, mind,' and he tore the leaf out of his note-book.</p> + +<p>'Here's my fly at the door, and you must—you must' (he was +looking at his watch)—'mind you <i>must</i> think of it seriously; and +so, you see, don't let anyone see that. You'll be sure to leave it +throwing about. The best way will be just to scratch it on the +door of your press, inside, you know; and don't put my name—you'll +remember that—only the rest of the address; and burn +this. Quince is with you?'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say.</p> + +<p>'Well, don't let her go; it's a bad sign if they wish it. Don't +consent, mind; but just tip me a hint and you'll have me down. +And any letters you get from Lady Knollys, you know, for she's +very plain-spoken, you'd better burn them off-hand. And I've +stayed too long, though; mind what I say, scratch it with a pin, +and burn that, and not a word to a mortal about it. Good-bye; +oh, I was taking away your book.'</p> + +<p>And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up +his umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room; +and in a minute more, I heard the sound of his vehicle as it +drove away.</p> + +<p>I looked after it with a sigh; the uneasy sensations which I +had experienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram-Haugh were +re-awakened.</p> + +<p>My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those +gigantic lime trees which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer +world. The fly, with the doctor's valise on top, vanished, and I +sighed an anxious sigh. The shadow of the over-arching trees +contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken; and glancing down +the torn leaf, Doctor Bryerly's address met my eye, between my +fingers.</p> + +<p>I slipt it into my breast, and ran up-stairs stealthily, trembling +lest the old woman should summon me again, at the head of the +stairs, into Uncle Silas's room, where under his gaze, I fancied, I +should be sure to betray myself.</p> + +<p>But I glided unseen and safely by, entered my room, and shut +my door. So listening and working, I, with my scissors' point, +scratched the address where Doctor Bryerly had advised. Then, +in positive terror, lest some one should even knock during the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246" id="page246"></a>[pg 238]</span> + +operation, I, with a match, consumed to ashes the tell-tale bit +of paper.</p> + +<p>Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations +of having a secret to keep. I fancy the pain of this solitary +liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally +very open and very nervous. I was always on the point of +betraying it <i>apropos des bottes</i>—always reproaching myself for +my duplicity; and in constant terror when honest Mary Quince +approached the press, or good-natured Milly made her occasional +survey of the wonders of my wardrobe. I would have given +anything to go and point to the tiny inscription, and say:—'This is Doctor +Bryerly's address in London. I scratched it with +my scissors' point, taking every precaution lest anyone—you, my +good friends, included—should surprise me. I have ever since +kept this secret to myself, and trembled whenever your frank +kind faces looked into the press. There—you at last know all +about it. Can you ever forgive my deceit?'</p> + +<p>But I could not make up my mind to reveal it; nor yet to +erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed +I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary +mood. High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision. Under +the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, +and often both prompt and brave.</p> + +<p>'Some one left here last night, I think, Miss,' said Mary +Quince, with a mysterious nod, one morning. ''Twas two +o'clock, and I was bad with the toothache, and went down to +get a pinch o' red pepper—leaving the candle a-light here lest +you should awake. When I was coming up—as I was crossing the +lobby, at the far end of the long gallery—what should I hear, +but a horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet +like. So I looks out o' the window; and there surely I did see +two horses yoked to a shay, and a fellah a-pullin' a box up o' +top; and out comes a walise and a bag; and I think it was old +Wyat, please'm, that Miss Milly calls L'Amour, that stood in the +doorway a-talking to the driver.'</p> + +<p>'And who got into the chaise, Mary?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was +bad, and me so awful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back +to bed, for I could not say how much longer they might wait. +And you'll find, Miss,'twill be kep' a secret, like the shay as + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247" id="page247"></a>[pg 239]</span> + +you saw'd, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways, and secrets; +and old Wyat—she does tell stories, don't she?—and she as +ought to be partickler, seein' her time be short now, and she +so old. It is awful, an old un like that telling such crams as +she do.'</p> + +<p>Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. +We both agreed, however, that the departure was probably that +of the person whose arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This +time the chaise had drawn up at the side door, round the corner +of the left side of the house; and, no doubt, driven away +by the back road.</p> + +<p>Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was +very provoking, however, that Mary Quince had not had +resolution to wait for the appearance of the traveller. We all +agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict silence, and +that even to Wyat—L'Amour I had better continue to call her—Mary +Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however, +that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly +adhered to this self-denying resolve.</p> + +<p>But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights, and +brilliant starlight, with good homely fires in our snuggery—gossipings, +stories, short readings now and then, and brisk walks +through the always beautiful scenery of Bartram-Haugh, and, +above all, the unbroken tenor of our life, which had fallen into +a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger or misadventure, +gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my interview +with Doctor Bryerly had so powerfully resuscitated.</p> + +<p>My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to +her country-house; and an active diplomacy, through the post-office, +was negotiating the re-opening of friendly relations between +the courts of Elverston and of Bartram.</p> + +<p>At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, +with her cloak and bonnet on, and her colour fresh from the +shrewd air of the Derbyshire hills, stood suddenly before me +in our sitting-room. Our meeting was that of two school-companions +long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl in my +eyes.</p> + +<p>What a hug it was; what a shower of kisses and ejaculations, +enquiries and caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair, +and, laughing, she said—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page248" id="page248"></a>[pg 240]</span> + +<p>'You have no idea what self-denial I have exercised to bring +this visit about. I, who detest writing, have actually written +five letters to Silas; and I don't think I said a single impertinent +thing in one of them! What a wonderful little old thing +your butler is! I did not know what to make of him on the +steps. Is he a struldbrug, or a fairy, or only a ghost? Where on +earth did your uncle pick him up? I'm sure he came in on +All Hallows E'en, to answer an incantation—not your future +husband, I hope—and he'll vanish some night into gray smoke, +and whisk sadly up the chimney. He's the most venerable little +thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in the carriage +and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. He's gone up +to prepare your uncle for my visit; and I really am very glad, +for I'm sure I shall look as young as Hebe after <i>him</i>. But who is +this? Who are you, my dear?'</p> + +<p>This was addressed to poor Milly, who stood at the corner +of the chimney-piece, staring with her round eyes and plump +cheeks in fear and wonder upon the strange lady.</p> + +<p>'How stupid of me,' I exclaimed. 'Milly, dear, this is your +cousin, Lady Knollys.'</p> + +<p>'And so <i>you</i> are Millicent. Well, dear, I am very glad to see +you.' And Cousin Monica was on her feet again in an instant, +with Milly's hand very cordially in hers; and she gave her a +kiss upon each cheek, and patted her head.</p> + +<p>Milly, I must mention, was a much more presentable figure +than when I first encountered her. Her dresses were at least +a quarter of a yard longer. Though very rustic, therefore, she +was not so barbarously grotesque, by any means.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249" id="page249"></a>[pg 241]</span> + +<a name="chap39"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXXIX</h3> + +<h2><i>COUSIN MONICA AND +UNCLE SILAS MEET</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Cousin Monica, with her hands upon Milly's shoulders, looked +amusedly and kindly in her face. 'And,' said she, 'we must be +very good friends—you funny creature, you and I. I'm allowed +to be the most saucy old woman in Derbyshire—quite incorrigibly +privileged; and nobody is ever affronted with me, so I +say the most shocking things constantly.'</p> + +<p>'I'm a bit that way, myself; and I think,' said poor Milly, +making an effort, and growing very red; she quite lost her head +at that point, and was incompetent to finish the sentiment she +had prefaced.</p> + +<p>'You think? Now, take my advice, and never wait to think my +dear; talk first, and think afterwards, that is my way; though, +indeed, I can't say I ever think at all. It is a very cowardly +habit. Our cold-blooded cousin Maud, there, thinks sometimes; +but it is always such a failure that I forgive her. I wonder when +your little pre-Adamite butler will return. He speaks the language +of the Picts and Ancient Britons, I dare say, and your +father requires a little time to translate him. And, Milly dear, I +am very hungry, so I won't wait for your butler, who would give +me, I suppose, one of the cakes baked by King Alfred, and some +Danish beer in a skull; but I'll ask you for a little of that nice +bread and butter.'</p> + +<p>With which accordingly Lady Knollys was quickly supplied; +but it did not at all impede her utterance.</p> + +<p>'Do you think, girls, you could be ready to come away with +me, if Silas gives leave, in an hour or two? I should so like to +take you both home with me to Elverston.'</p> + +<p>'How delightful! you darling,' cried I, embracing and kissing + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page250" id="page250"></a>[pg 242]</span> + +her; 'for my part, I should be ready in five minutes; what do +you say, Milly?'</p> + +<p>Poor Milly's wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than +handsome; and she looked horribly affrighted, and whispered in +my ear—</p> + +<p>'My best petticoat is away at the laundress; say in a week, +Maud.'</p> + +<p>'What does she say?' asked Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'She fears she can't be ready,' I answered, dejectedly.</p> + +<p>'There's a deal of my slops in the wash,' blurted out poor +Milly, staring straight at Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean?' asked +Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'Her things have not come home yet from the laundress,' I +replied; and at this moment our wondrous old butler entered to +announce to Lady Knollys that his master was ready to receive +her, whenever she was disposed to favour him; and also to make +polite apologies for his being compelled, by his state of health, +to give her the trouble of ascending to his room.</p> + +<p>So Cousin Monica was at the door in a moment, over her +shoulder calling to us, 'Come, girls.'</p> + +<p>'Please, not yet, my lady—you alone; and he requests the +young ladies will be in the way, as he will send for them presently.'</p> + +<p>I began to admire poor 'Giblets' as the wreck of a tolerably +respectable servant.</p> + +<p>'Very good; perhaps it is better we should kiss and be friends +in private first,' said Cousin Knollys, laughing; and away she +went under the guidance of the mummy.</p> + +<p>I had an account of this <i>tête-à-tête</i> afterwards from Lady +Knollys.</p> + +<p>'When I saw him, my dear,' she said, 'I could hardly believe +my eyes; such white hair—such a white face—such mad eyes—such +a death-like smile. When I saw him last, his hair was dark; +he dressed himself like a modern Englishman; and he really preserved +a likeness to the full-length portrait at Knowl, that you +fell in love with, you know; but, angels and ministers of grace! +such a spectre! I asked myself, is it necromancy, or is it delirium +tremens that has reduced him to this? And said he, with that +odious smile, that made me fancy myself half insane—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page251" id="page251"></a>[pg 243]</span> + +<p>'"You see a change, Monica."</p> + +<p>'What a sweet, gentle, insufferable voice he has! Somebody +once told me about the tone of a glass flute that made some +people hysterical to listen to, and I was thinking of it all the +time. There was always a peculiar quality in his voice.</p> + +<p>'"I do see a change, Silas," I said at last; "and, no doubt, +so do you in me—a great change."</p> + +<p>'"There has been time enough to work a greater than I observe +in you since you last honoured me with a visit," said he.</p> + +<p>'I think he was at his old sarcasms, and meant that I was +the same impertinent minx he remembered long ago, uncorrected +by time; and so I am, and he must not expect compliments +from old Monica Knollys.</p> + +<p>'"It is a long time, Silas; but that, you know, is not my +fault," said I.</p> + +<p>'"Not your fault, my dear—your instinct. We are all imitative +creatures: the great people ostracised me, and the small +ones followed. We are very like turkeys, we have so much good +sense and so much generosity. Fortune, in a freak, wounded +my head, and the whole brood were upon me, pecking and gobbling, +gobbling and pecking, and you among them, dear Monica. +It wasn't your fault, only your instinct, so I quite forgive +you; but no wonder the peckers wear better than the pecked. +You are robust; and I, what I am."</p> + +<p>'"Now, Silas, I have not come here to quarrel. If we quarrel +now, mind, we can never make it up—we are too old, so let us +forget all we can, and try to forgive something; and if we can +do neither, at all events let there be truce between us while I +am here."</p> + +<p>'"My personal wrongs I can quite forgive, and I do, Heaven +knows, from my heart; but there are things which ought not to +be forgiven. My children have been ruined by it. I may, by the +mercy of Providence, be yet set right in the world, and so soon +as that time comes, I will remember, and I will act; but my +children—you will see that wretched girl, my daughter—education, +society, all would come too late—my children have been +ruined by it."</p> + +<p>'"I have not done it; but I know what you mean," I said. +"You menace litigation whenever you have the means; but you +forget that Austin placed you under promise, when he gave you + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252" id="page252"></a>[pg 244]</span> + +the use of this house and place, never to disturb my title to +Elverston. So there is my answer, if you mean that."</p> + +<p>'"I mean what I mean," he replied, with his old smile.</p> + +<p>'"You mean then," said I, "that for the pleasure of vexing me +with litigation, you are willing to forfeit your tenure of this +house and place."</p> + +<p>'"Suppose I <i>did</i> mean precisely that, why should I forfeit +anything? My beloved brother, by his will, has given me a right +to the use of Bartram-Haugh for my life, and attached no absurd +condition of the kind you fancy to his gift."</p> + +<p>'Silas was in one of his vicious old moods, and liked to menace +me. His vindictiveness got the better of his craft; but he +knows as well as I do that he never could succeed in disturbing +the title of my poor dear Harry Knollys; and I was not at all +alarmed by his threats; and I told him so, as coolly as I speak +to you now.</p> + +<p>'"Well, Monica," he said, "I have weighed you in the balance, +and you are not found wanting. For a moment the old +man possessed me: the thought of my children, of past unkindness, +and present affliction and disgrace, exasperated me, and I +was mad. It was but for a moment—the galvanic spasm of a +corpse. Never was breast more dead than mine to the passions +and ambitions of the world. They are not for white locks like +these, nor for a man who, for a week in every month, lies in the +gate of death. Will you shake hands? <i>Here</i>—I <i>do</i> strike a +truce; +and I <i>do</i> forget and forgive <i>everything</i>."</p> + +<p>'I don't know what he meant by this scene. I have no idea +whether he was acting, or lost his head, or, in fact, why or how +it occurred; but I am glad, darling, that, unlike myself, I was +calm, and that a quarrel has not been forced upon me.'</p> + +<p>When our turn came and we were summoned to the presence, +Uncle Silas was quite as usual; but Cousin Monica's +heightened colour, and the flash of her eyes, showed plainly +that something exciting and angry had occurred.</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas commented in his own vein upon the effect of +Bartram air and liberty, all he had to offer; and called on me +to say how I liked them. And then he called Milly to him, kissed +her tenderly, smiled sadly upon her, and turning to Cousin +Monica, said—</p> + +<p>'This is my daughter Milly—oh! she has been presented to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page253" id="page253"></a>[pg 245]</span> + +you down-stairs, has she? You have, no doubt, been interested +by her. As I told her cousin Maud, though I am not yet quite +a Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, she is a very finished Miss Hoyden. Are +not you, my poor Milly? You owe your distinction, my dear, to +that line of circumvallation which has, ever since your birth, intercepted +all civilisation on its way to Bartram. You are much obliged, +Milly, to everybody who, whether naturally or <i>un</i>-naturally, +turned a sod in that invisible, but impenetrable, work. For +your accomplishments—rather singular than fashionable—you +are indebted, in part, to your cousin, Lady Knollys. Is not she, +Monica? <i>Thank</i> her, Milly.'</p> + +<p>'This is your <i>truce</i>, Silas,' said Lady Knollys, with a quiet +sharpness. 'I think, Silas Ruthyn, you want to provoke me to +speak in a way before these young creatures which we should all +regret.'</p> + +<p>'So my badinage excites your temper, Monnie. Think how +you <i>would</i> feel, then, if I had found you by the highway side, +mangled by robbers, and set my foot upon your throat, and spat +in your face. But—stop this. Why have I said this? simply to +emphasize my forgiveness. See, girls, Lady Knollys and I, cousins +long estranged, forget and forgive the past, and join hands over +its buried injuries.'</p> + +<p>'Well, <i>be</i> it so; only let us have done with ironies and covert +taunts.'</p> + +<p>And with these words their hands were joined; and Uncle +Silas, after he had released hers, patted and fondled it with +his, laughing icily and very low all the time.</p> + +<p>'I wish so much, dear Monica,' he said, when this piece of +silent by-play was over, 'that I could ask you to stay to-night; +but absolutely I have not a bed to offer, and even if I had, I +fear my suit would hardly prevail.'</p> + +<p>Then came Lady Knollys' invitation for Milly and me. He +was very much obliged; he smiled over it a great deal, meditating. +I thought he was puzzled; and amid his smiles, his wild +eyes scanned Cousin Monica's frank face once or twice suspiciously.</p> + +<p>There was a difficulty—an <i>undefined</i> difficulty—about letting +us go that day; but on a future one—soon—<i>very</i> soon—he would +be most happy.</p> + +<p>Well, there was an end of that little project, for to-day at + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page254" id="page254"></a>[pg 246]</span> + +least; and Cousin Monica was too well-bred to urge it beyond +a certain point.</p> + +<p>'Milly, my dear, will you put on your hat and show me +the grounds about the house? May she, Silas? I should like to +renew my acquaintance.'</p> + +<p>'You'll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor man's pleasure +grounds must rely on Nature, and trust to her for effects. +Where there is fine timber, however, and abundance of slope, +and rock, and hollow, we sometimes gain in picturesqueness +what we lose by neglect in luxury.'</p> + +<p>Then, as Cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by +a path, and meet her carriage at a point to which we would accompany +her, and so make her way home, she took leave of +Uncle Silas; a ceremony whereat—without, I thought, much zeal +at either side—a kiss took place.</p> + +<p>'Now, girls!' said Cousin Knollys, when we were fairly in +motion over the grass, 'what do you say—will he let you come—yes +or no? I can't say, but I think, dear,'—this to Milly—'he +ought to let you see a little more of the world than appears +among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very pretty they are, +like yourself; but very wild, and very little seen. Where is your +brother, Milly; is not he older than you?'</p> + +<p>'I don't know where; and he is older by six years and a bit.'</p> + +<p>By-and-by, when Milly was gesticulating to frighten some +herons by the river's brink into the air, Cousin Monica said +confidentially to me—</p> + +<p>'He has run away, I'm told—I wish I could believe it—and +enlisted in a regiment going to India, perhaps the best thing +for him. Did you see him here before his judicious self-banishment?'</p> + +<p>'No.'</p> + +<p>'Well, I suppose you have had no loss. Doctor Bryerly says +from all he can learn he is a very bad young man. And now tell +me, dear, <i>is</i> Silas kind to you?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, always gentle, just as you saw him to-day; but we don't +see a great deal of him—very little, in fact.'</p> + +<p>'And how do you like your life and the people?' she asked.</p> + +<p>'My life, very well; and the people, <i>pretty</i> well. There's an +old women we don't like, old Wyat, she is cross and mysterious +and tells untruths; but I don't think she is dishonest—so Mary + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255" id="page255"></a>[pg 247]</span> + +Quince says—and that, you know, is a point; and there is a +family, father and daughter, called Hawkes, who live in the +Windmill Wood, who are perfect savages, though my uncle says +they don't mean it; but they are very disagreeable, rude people; +and except them we see very little of the servants or other +people. But there has been a mysterious visit; some one came +late at night, and remained for some days, though Milly and I +never saw them, and Mary Quince saw a chaise at the side-door +at two o'clock at night.'</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica was so highly interested at this that she arrested +her walk and stood facing me, with her hand on my arm, +questioning and listening, and lost, as it seemed, in dismal conjecture.</p> + +<p>'It is not pleasant, you know,' I said.</p> + +<p>'No, it is not pleasant,' said Lady Knollys, very gloomily.</p> + +<p>And just then Milly joined us, shouting to us to look at the +herons flying; so Cousin Monica did, and smiled and nodded +in thanks to Milly, and was again silent and thoughtful as we +walked on.</p> + +<p>'You are to come to me, mind, both of you girls,' she said, +abruptly; 'you <i>shall</i>. I'll manage it.'</p> + +<p>When silence returned, and Milly ran away once more to try +whether the old gray trout was visible in the still water under +the bridge, Cousin Monica said to me in a low tone, looking +hard at me—</p> + +<p>'You've not seen anything to frighten you, Maud? Don't look +so alarmed, dear,' she added with a little laugh, which was not +very merry, however. 'I don't mean frighten in any awful sense—in +fact, I did not mean frighten at all. I meant—I can't exactly +express it—anything to vex, or make you uncomfortable; have +you?'</p> + +<p>'No, I can't say I have, except that room in which Mr. Charke +was found dead.'</p> + +<p>'Oh! you saw that, did you?—I should like to see it so much. +Your bedroom is not near it?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, no; on the floor beneath, and looking to the front. And +Doctor Bryerly talked a little to me, and there seemed to be +something on his mind more than he chose to tell me; so that +for some time after I saw him I really was, as you say, frightened; + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page256" id="page256"></a>[pg 248]</span> + +but, except that, I really have had no cause. And what was +in your mind when you asked me?'</p> + +<p>'Well, you know, Maud, you are afraid of ghosts, banditti, +and <i>every</i>thing; and I wished to know whether you were uncomfortable, +and what your particular bogle was just now—that, I +assure you, was all; and I know,' she continued, suddenly changing +her light tone and manner for one of pointed entreaty, +'what Doctor Bryerly said; and I <i>implore</i> of you, Maud, to +think of it seriously; and when you come to me, you shall do so +with the intention of remaining at Elverston.'</p> + +<p>'Now, Cousin Monica, is this fair? You and Doctor Bryerly +both talk in the same awful way to me; and I assure you, you +don't know how nervous I am sometimes, and yet you won't, +either of you, say what you mean. Now, Monica, dear cousin, +won't you tell me?'</p> + +<p>'You see, dear, it is so lonely; it's a strange place, and he +so odd. I don't like the place, and I don't like him. I've tried, +but I can't, and I think I never shall. He may be a very—what +was it that good little silly curate at Knowl used to call him?—a +very advanced Christian—that is it, and I hope he is; but if +he is only what he used to be, his utter seclusion from society +removes the only check, except personal fear—and he never had +much of that—upon a very bad man. And you must know, my +dear Maud, what a prize you are, and what an immense trust +it is.'</p> + +<p>Suddenly Cousin Monica stopped short, and looked at me as if +she had gone too far.</p> + +<p>'But, you know, Silas may be very good <i>now</i>, although he was +wild and selfish in his young days. Indeed I don't know what +to make of him; but I am sure when you have thought it over, +you will agree with me and Doctor Bryerly, that you must not +stay here.'</p> + +<p>It was vain trying to induce my cousin to be more explicit.</p> + +<p>'I hope to see you at Elverston in a very few days. I will +<i>shame</i> Silas into letting you come. I don't like his reluctance.'</p> + +<p>'But don't you think he must know that Milly would require +some little outfit before her visit?'</p> + +<p>'Well, I can't say. I hope that is all; but be it what it may, +I'll <i>make</i> him let you come, and <i>immediately</i>, too.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page257" id="page257"></a>[pg 249]</span> + +<p>After she had gone, I experienced a repetition of those undefined +doubts which had tortured me for some time after my +conversation with Dr. Bryerly. I had truly said, however, I was +well enough contented with my mode of life here, for I had been +trained at Knowl to a solitude very nearly as profound.</p> + +<a name="chap40"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XL</h3> + +<h2><i>IN WHICH I MAKE ANOTHER +COUSIN'S ACQUAINTANCE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>My correspondence about this time was not very extensive. +About once a fortnight a letter from honest Mrs. Rusk conveyed +to me how the dogs and ponies were, in queer English, oddly +spelt; some village gossip, a critique upon Doctor Clay's or the +Curate's last sermon, and some severities generally upon the Dissenters' +doings, with loves to Mary Quince, and all good wishes +to me. Sometimes a welcome letter from cheerful Cousin Monica; +and now, to vary the series, a copy of complimentary verses, +without a signature, very adoring—very like Byron, I then fancied, +and now, I must confess, rather vapid. Could I doubt from +whom they came?</p> + +<p>I had received, about a month after my arrival, a copy of +verses in the same hand, in a plaintive ballad style, of the soldierly +sort, in which the writer said, that as living his sole object +was to please me, so dying I should be his latest thought; and +some more poetic impieties, asking only in return that when the +storm of battle had swept over, I should 'shed a tear' on seeing +'the <i>oak lie</i>, where it fell.' Of course, about this lugubrious +pun, there could be no misconception. The Captain was unmistakably +indicated; and I was so moved that I could no longer +retain my secret; but walking with Milly that day, confided +the little romance to that unsophisticated listener, under the +chestnut trees. The lines were so amorously dejected, and yet +so heroically redolent of blood and gunpowder, that Milly and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page258" id="page258"></a>[pg 250]</span> + +I agreed that the writer must be on the verge of a sanguinary +campaign.</p> + +<p>It was not easy to get at Uncle Silas's 'Times' or 'Morning +Post,' which we fancied would explain these horrible allusions; +but Milly bethought her of a sergeant in the militia, resident +in Feltram, who knew the destination and quarters of every +regiment in the service; and circuitously, from this authority, +we learned, to my infinite relief, that Captain Oakley's regiment +had still two years to sojourn in England.</p> + +<p>I was summoned one evening by old L'Amour, to my uncle's +room. I remember his appearance that evening so well, as he +lay back in his chair; the pillow; the white glare of his strange +eye; his feeble, painful smile.</p> + +<p>'You'll excuse my not rising, dear Maud, I am so miserably +ill this evening.'</p> + +<p>I expressed my respectful condolence.</p> + +<p>'Yes; I <i>am</i> to be pitied; but pity is of no use, dear,' he murmured, +peevishly. 'I sent for you to make you acquainted with +your cousin, my son. Where are you Dudley?'</p> + +<p>A figure seated in a low lounging chair, at the other side of +the fire, and which till then I had not observed, at these words +rose up a little slowly, like a man stiff after a day's hunting; and +I beheld with a shock that held my breath, and fixed my eyes +upon him in a stare, the young man whom I had encountered +at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursion there +with Madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one +of that ruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in +the warren at Knowl.</p> + +<p>I suppose I looked very much affrighted. If I had been looking +at a ghost I could not have felt much more scared and incredulous.</p> + +<p>When I was able to turn my eyes upon my uncle he was not +looking at me; but with a glimmer of that smile with which +a father looks on a son whose youth and comeliness he admires, +his white face was turned towards the young man, in whom I +beheld nothing but the image of odious and dreadful associations.</p> + +<p>'Come, sir,' said my uncle, we must not be too modest. Here's +your cousin Maud—what do you say?'</p> + +<p>'How are ye, Miss?' he said, with a sheepish grin.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page259" id="page259"></a>[pg 251]</span> + +<p>'Miss! Come, come. Miss us, no Misses,' said my uncle; 'she +is Maud, and you Dudley, or I mistake; or we shall have you +calling Milly, madame. She'll not refuse you her hand, I venture +to think. Come, young gentleman, speak for yourself.'</p> + +<p>'How are ye, Maud?' he said, doing his best, and drawing +near, he extended his hand. 'You're welcome to Bartram-Haugh, +Miss.'</p> + +<p>'Kiss your cousin, sir. Where's your gallantry? On my +honour, I disown you,' exclaimed my uncle, with more energy +than he had shown before.</p> + +<p>With a clumsy effort, and a grin that was both sheepish and +impudent, he grasped my hand and advanced his face. The imminent +salute gave me strength to spring back a step or two, and +he hesitated.</p> + +<p>My uncle laughed peevishly.</p> + +<p>'Well, well, that will do, I suppose. In my time first-cousins +did not meet like strangers; but perhaps we were wrong; we are +learning modesty from the Americans, and old English ways are +too gross for us.'</p> + +<p>'I have—I've seen him before—that is;' and at this point I +stopped.</p> + +<p>My uncle turned his strange glare, in a sort of scowl of enquiry, +upon me.</p> + +<p>'Oh!—hey! why this is news. You never told me. Where +have you met—eh, Dudley?'</p> + +<p>'Never saw her in my days, so far as I'm aweer on,' said the +young man.</p> + +<p>'No! Well, then, Maud, will <i>you</i> enlighten us?' said Uncle +Silas, coldly.</p> + +<p>'I <i>did</i> see that young gentleman before,' I faltered.</p> + +<p>'Meaning <i>me</i>, ma'am?' he asked, coolly.</p> + +<p>'Yes—certainly <i>you</i>. I <i>did</i>, uncle,' answered I.</p> + +<p>'And where was it, my dear? Not at Knowl, I fancy. Poor +dear Austin did not trouble me or mine much with his hospitalities.'</p> + +<p>This was not a pleasant tone to take in speaking of his dead +brother and benefactor; but at the moment I was too much +engaged upon the one point to observe it.</p> + +<p>'I met'—I could not say my cousin—'I met him, uncle—your +son—that young gentleman—I <i>saw</i> him, I should say, at Church + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page260" id="page260"></a>[pg 252]</span> + +Scarsdale, and afterwards with some other persons in the warren +at Knowl. It was the night our gamekeeper was beaten.'</p> + +<p>'Well, Dudley, what do you say to that?' asked Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>'I never <i>was</i> at them places, so help me. I don't know where +they be; and I never set eyes on the young lady before, as I hope +to be saved, in all my days,' said he, with a countenance so +unchanged and an air so confident that I began to think I must +be the dupe of one of those strange resemblances which have +been known to lead to positive identification in the witness-box, +afterwards proved to be utterly mistaken.</p> + +<p>'You look so—so <i>uncomfortable</i>, Maud, at the idea of having +seen him before, that I hardly wonder at the vehemence of his +denial. There was plainly something disagreeable; but you +see as respects him it is a total mistake. My boy was always a +truth-telling fellow—you may rely implicitly on what he says. +You were <i>not</i> at those places?'</p> + +<p>'I wish I may——,' began the ingenuous youth, with increased +vehemence.</p> + +<p>'There, there—that will do; your honour and word as a +gentleman—and <i>that</i> you are, though a poor one—will quite +satisfy your cousin Maud. Am I right, my dear? I do assure +you, as a gentleman, I never knew him to say the thing that was +not.'</p> + +<p>So Mr. Dudley Ruthyn began, not to curse, but to swear, in +the prescribed form, that he had never seen me before, or the +places I had named, 'since I was weaned, by——'</p> + +<p>'That's enough—now shake hands, if you won't kiss, like +cousins,' interrupted my uncle.</p> + +<p>And very uncomfortably I did lend him my hand to shake.</p> + +<p>'You'll want some supper, Dudley, so Maud and I will excuse +your going. Good-night, my dear boy,' and he smiled and waved +him from the room.</p> + +<p>'That's as fine a young fellow, I think, as any English father +can boast for his son—true, brave, and kind, and quite an +Apollo. Did you observe how finely proportioned he is, and what +exquisite features the fellow has? He's rustic and rough, as you +see; but a year or two in the militia—I've a promise of a commission +for him—he's too old for the line—will form and polish +him. He wants nothing but manner; and I protest when he has + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261" id="page261"></a>[pg 253]</span> + +had a little drilling of that kind, I do believe he'll be as pretty +a fellow as you'd find in England.'</p> + +<p>I listened with amazement. I could discover nothing but what +was disagreeable in the horrid bumpkin, and thought such +an instance of the blindness of parental partiality was hardly +credible.</p> + +<p>I looked down, dreading another direct appeal to my judgment; +and Uncle Silas, I suppose, referred those downcast looks +to maiden modesty, for he forbore to task mine by any new +interrogatory.</p> + +<p>Dudley Ruthyn's cool and resolute denial of ever having +seen me or the places I had named, and the inflexible serenity +of his countenance while doing so, did very much shake my +confidence in my own identification of him. I could not be +<i>quite</i> certain that the person I had seen at Church Scarsdale +was the very same whom I afterwards saw at Knowl. And now, +in this particular instance, after the lapse of a still longer period, +could I be perfectly certain that my memory, deceived by some +accidental points of resemblance, had not duped me, and +wronged my cousin, Dudley Ruthyn?</p> + +<p>I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiesence +in his splendid estimate of his cub, and was nettled at +my silence. After a short interval he said—</p> + +<p>'I've seen something of the world in my day, and I can say +without a misgiving of partiality, that Dudley is the material +of a perfect English gentleman. I am not blind, of course—the +training must be supplied; a year or two of good models, active +self-criticism, and good society. I simply say that the <i>material</i> +is there.'</p> + +<p>Here was another interval of silence.</p> + +<p>'And now tell me, child, what these recollections of +Church—Church—<i>what</i>?'</p> + +<p>'Church Scarsdale,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'Yes, thank you—Church Scarsdale and Knowl—are?'</p> + +<p>So I related my stories as well as I could.</p> + +<p>'Well, dear Maud, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is +hardly so terrific as I expected,' said Uncle Silas with a cold +little laugh; 'and I don't see, if he had really been the hero of +it, why he should shrink from avowing it. I know I should not. +And I really can't say that your pic-nic party in the grounds of + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page262" id="page262"></a>[pg 254]</span> + +Knowl has frightened me much more. A lady waiting in the +carriage, and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems +to me a guarantee that no mischief was meant; but champagne +is the soul of frolic, and a row with the gamekeepers a natural +consequence. It happened to me once—forty years ago, when +I was a wild young buck—one of the worst rows I ever was in.'</p> + +<p>And Uncle Silas poured some eau-de-cologne over the corner +of his handkerchief, and touched his temples with it.</p> + +<p>'If my boy had been there, I do assure you—and I know him—he +would say so at once. I fancy he would rather <i>boast</i> of it. +I never knew him utter an untruth. When you know him a +little you'll say so.'</p> + +<p>With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted, and +languidly poured some of his favourite eau-de-cologne over +the palms of his hands, nodded a farewell, and, in a whisper, +wished me good-night.</p> + +<p>'Dudley's come,' whispered Milly, taking me under the arm +as I entered the lobby. 'But I don't care: he never gives me +nout; and he gets money from Governor, as much as he likes, +and I never a sixpence. It's a shame!'</p> + +<p>So there was no great love between the only son and only +daughter of the younger line of the Ruthyns.</p> + +<p>I was curious to learn all that Milly could tell me of this +new inmate of Bartram-Haugh; and Milly was communicative +without having a great deal to relate, and what I heard from her +tended to confirm my own disagreeable impressions about him. +She was afraid of him. He was a 'woundy ugly customer in a +wax, she could tell me.' He was the only one 'she ever knowed as +had pluck to jaw the Governor.' But he was 'afeard on the +Governor, too.'</p> + +<p>His visits to Bartram-Haugh, I heard, were desultory; and +this, to my relief, would probably not outlast a week or a fortnight. +'He <i>was</i> such a fashionable cove:' he was always 'a +gadding about, mostly to Liverpool and Birmingham, and sometimes +to Lunnun, itself.' He was 'keeping company one time +with Beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully afraid he'd +a married her; but that was all bosh and nonsense; and Beauty +would have none of his chaff and wheedling, for she liked +Tom Brice;' and Milly thought that Dudley never 'cared a +crack of a whip for her.' He used to go to the Windmill to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page263" id="page263"></a>[pg 255]</span> + +have 'a smoke with Pegtop;' and he was a member of the +Feltram Club, that met at the 'Plume o' Feathers.' He was +'a rare good shot,' she heard; and 'he was before the justices +for poaching, but they could make nothing of it.' And the Governor +said 'it was all through spite of him—for they hate us +for being better blood than they.' And 'all but the squires and +those upstart folk loves Dudley, he is so handsome and gay—though +he be a bit cross at home.' And, 'Governor says, he'll +be a Parliament man yet, spite o' them all.'</p> + +<p>Next morning, when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley +tapped at the window with the end of his clay pipe—a 'churchwarden' +Milly called it—just such a long curved pipe as Joe +Willet is made to hold between his lips in those charming illustrations +of 'Barnaby Rudge'—which we all know so well—and +lifting his 'wide-awake' with a burlesque salutation, which, +I suppose, would have charmed the 'Plume of Feathers,' he +dropped, kicked and caught his 'wide-awake,' with an agility +and gravity, as he replaced it, so inexpressibly humorous, that +Milly went off in a loud fit of laughter, with the ejaculation—</p> + +<p>'Did you ever?'</p> + +<p>It was odd how repulsively my confidence in my original +identification always revived on unexpectedly seeing Dudley +after an interval.</p> + +<p>I could perceive that this piece of comic by-play was meant +to make a suitable impression on me. I received it, however, +with a killing gravity; and after a word or two to Milly, he +lounged away, having first broken his pipe, bit by bit, into +pieces, which he balanced in turn on his nose and on his chin, +from which features he jerked them into his mouth, with a +precision which, along with his excellent pantomime of eating +them, highly excited Milly's mirth and admiration.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page264" id="page264"></a>[pg 256]</span> + +<a name="chap41"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLI</h3> + +<h2><i>MY COUSIN DUDLEY</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Greatly to my satisfaction, this engaging person did not appear +again that day. But next day Milly told me that my uncle had +taken him to task for the neglect with which he was treating us.</p> + +<p>'He did pitch into him, sharp and short, and not a word +from him, only sulky like; and I so frightened, I durst not look +up almost; and they said a lot I could not make head or tail +of; and Governor ordered me out o' the room, and glad I was +to go; and so they had it out between them.'</p> + +<p>Milly could throw no light whatsoever upon the adventures +at Church Scarsdale and Knowl; and I was left still in doubt, +which sometimes oscillated one way and sometimes another. +But, on the whole, I could not shake off the misgivings which +constantly recurred and pointed very obstinately to Dudley as +the hero of those odious scenes.</p> + +<p>Oddly enough, though, I now felt far less confident upon the +point than I did at first sight. I had begun to distrust my +memory, and to suspect my fancy; but of this there could be no +question, that between the person so unpleasantly linked in my +remembrance with those scenes, and Dudley Ruthyn, a striking, +though possibly only a general resemblance did exist.</p> + +<p>Milly was certainly right as to the gist of Uncle Silas's injunction, +for we saw more of Dudley henceforward.</p> + +<p>He was shy; he was impudent; he was awkward; he was +conceited;—altogether a most intolerable bumpkin. Though he +sometimes flushed and stammered, and never for a moment was +at his ease in my presence, yet, to my inexpressible disgust, +there was a self-complacency in his manner, and a kind of triumph +in his leer, which very plainly told me how satisfied he +was as to the nature of the impression he was making upon me.</p> + +<p>I would have given worlds to tell him how odious I thought + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page265" id="page265"></a>[pg 257]</span> + +him. Probably, however, he would not have believed me. Perhaps +he fancied that 'ladies' affected airs of indifference and +repulsion to cover their real feelings. I never looked at or spoke +to him when I could avoid either, and then it was as briefly as +I could. To do him justice, however, he seemed to have no +liking for our society, and certainly never seemed altogether +comfortable in it.</p> + +<p>I find it hard to write quite impartially even of Dudley +Ruthyn's personal appearance; but, with an effort, I confess +that his features were good, and his figure not amiss, though a +little fattish. He had light whiskers, light hair, and a pink +complexion, and very good blue eyes. So far my uncle was +right; and if he had been perfectly gentlemanlike, he really +might have passed for a handsome man in the judgment of +some critics.</p> + +<p>But there was that odious mixture of <i>mauvaise honte</i> and impudence, +a clumsiness, a slyness, and a consciousness in his +bearing and countenance, not distinctly boorish, but <i>low</i>, which +turned his good looks into an ugliness more intolerable than +that of feature; and a corresponding vulgarity pervading his +dress, his demeanour, and his very walk, marred whatever good +points his figure possessed. If you take all this into account, with +the ominous and startling misgivings constantly recurring, you +will understand the mixed feelings of anger and disgust with +which I received the admiration he favoured me with.</p> + +<p>Gradually he grew less constrained in my presence, and certainly +his manners were not improved by his growing ease and +confidence.</p> + +<p>He came in while Milly and I were at luncheon, jumped up, +with a 'right-about face' performed in the air, sitting on the +sideboard, whence grinning slyly and kicking his heels, he leered +at us.</p> + +<p>'Will you have something, Dudley?' asked Milly.</p> + +<p>'No, lass; but I'll look at ye, and maybe drink a drop for +company.'</p> + +<p>And with these words, he took a sportsman's flask from his +pocket; and helping himself to a large glass and a decanter, he +compounded a glass of strong brandy-and-water, as he talked, +and refreshed himself with it from time to time.</p> + +<p>'Curate's up wi' the Governor,' he said, with a grin. 'I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266" id="page266"></a>[pg 258]</span> + +wanted a word wi' him; but I s'pose I'll hardly git in this hour +or more; they're a praying and disputing, and a Bible-chopping, +as usual. Ha, ha! But 'twon't hold much longer, old Wyat says, +now that Uncle Austin's dead; there's nout to be made o' praying +and that work no longer, and it don't pay of itself.'</p> + +<p>'O fie! For shame, you sinner!' laughed Milly. 'He wasn't +in a church these five years, he says, and then only to meet a +young lady. Now, isn't he a sinner, Maud—isn't he?'</p> + +<p>Dudley, grinning, looked with a languishing slyness at me, +biting the edge of his wide-awake, which he held over his breast.</p> + +<p>Dudley Ruthyn probably thought there was a manly and +desperate sort of fascination in the impiety he professed.</p> + +<p>'I wonder, Milly,' said I, 'at your laughing. How <i>can</i> you +laugh?'</p> + +<p>'You'd have me cry, would ye?' answered Milly.</p> + +<p>'I certainly would not have you laugh,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'I know I wish <i>some</i> one 'ud cry for me, and I know who,' +said Dudley, in what he meant for a very engaging way, and he +looked at me as if he thought I must feel flattered by his caring +to have my tears.</p> + +<p>Instead of crying, however, I leaned back in my chair, and +began quietly to turn over the pages of Walter Scott's poems, +which I and Milly were then reading in the evenings.</p> + +<p>The tone in which this odious young man spoke of his father, +his coarse mention of mine, and his low boasting of his irreligion, +disgusted me more than ever with him.</p> + +<p>'They parsons be slow coaches—awful slow. I'll have a good +bit to wait, I s'pose. I should be three miles away and more by +this time—drat it!' He was eyeing the legging of the foot +which he held up while he spoke, as if calculating how far away +that limb should have carried him by this time. 'Why can't folk +do their Bible and prayers o' Sundays, and get it off their +stomachs? I say, Milly lass, will ye see if Governor be done +wi' the Curate? Do. I'm a losing the whole day along o' him.'</p> + +<p>Milly jumped up, accustomed to obey her brother, and as she +passed me, whispered, with a wink—</p> + +<p>'<i>Money</i>.'</p> + +<p>And away she went. Dudley whistled a tune, and swung his +foot like a pendulum, as he followed her with his side-glance.</p> + +<p>'I say, it is a hard case, Miss, a lad o' spirit should be kept + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page267" id="page267"></a>[pg 259]</span> + +so tight. I haven't a shilling but what comes through his fingers; +an' drat the tizzy he'll gi' me till he knows the reason why.'</p> + +<p>'Perhaps,' I said, 'my uncle thinks you should earn some for +yourself.'</p> + +<p>'I'd like to know how a fella's to earn money now-a-days. +You wouldn't have a gentleman to keep a shop, I fancy. But +I'll ha' a fistful jist now, and no thanks to he. Them executors, +you know, owes me a deal o' money. Very honest chaps, of +course; but they're cursed slow about paying, I know.'</p> + +<p>I made no remark upon this elegant allusion to the executors +of my dear father's will.</p> + +<p>'An' I tell ye, Maud, when I git the tin, I know who I'll buy +a farin' for. I do, lass.'</p> + +<p>The odious creature drawled this with a sidelong leer, which, +I suppose, he fancied quite irresistible.</p> + +<p>I am one of those unfortunate persons who always blushed +when I most wished to look indifferent; and now, to my inexpressible +chagrin, with its accustomed perversity, I felt the blush +mount to my cheeks, and glow even on my forehead.</p> + +<p>I saw that he perceived this most disconcerting indication of +a sentiment the very idea of which was so detestable, that, +equally enraged with myself and with him, I did not know how +to exhibit my contempt and indignation.</p> + +<p>Mistaking the cause of my discomposure, Mr. Dudley Ruthyn +laughed softly, with an insufferable suavity.</p> + +<p>'And there's some'at, lass, I must have in return. Honour thy +father, you know; you would not ha' me disobey the Governor? +No, you wouldn't—would ye?'</p> + +<p>I darted at him a look which I hoped would have quelled his +impertinence; but I blushed most provokingly—more violently +than ever.</p> + +<p>'I'd back them eyes again' the county, I would,' he exclaimed, +with a condescending enthusiasm. 'You're awful pretty, you +are, Maud. I don't know what came over me t'other night when +Governor told me to buss ye; but dang it, ye shan't deny me +now, and I'll have a kiss, lass, in spite o' thy blushes.'</p> + +<p>He jumped from his elevated seat on the sideboard, and came +swaggering toward me, with an odious grin, and his arms extended. +I started to my feet, absolutely transported with fury.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page268" id="page268"></a>[pg 260]</span> + +<p>'Drat me, if she baint a-going to fight me!' he chuckled +humorously.</p> + +<p>'Come, Maud, you would not be ill-natured, sure? Arter all, +it's only our duty. Governor bid us kiss, didn't he?'</p> + +<p>'Don't—<i>don't</i>, sir. Stand back, or I'll call the servants.'</p> + +<p>And as it was I began to scream for Milly.</p> + +<p>'There's how it is wi' all they cattle! You never knows your +own mind—ye don't,' he said, surlily. 'You make such a row +about a bit o' play. Drop it, will you? There's no one a-harming +you—is there? <i>I</i>'m not, for sartain.'</p> + +<p>And, with an angry chuckle, he turned on his heel, and left +the room.</p> + +<p>I think I was perfectly right to resist, with all the vehemence +of which I was capable, this attempt to assume an intimacy +which, notwithstanding my uncle's opinion to the contrary, +seemed to me like an outrage.</p> + +<p>Milly found me alone—not frightened, but very angry. I had +quite made up my mind to complain to my uncle, but the +Curate was still with him; and, by the time he had gone, I +was cooler. My awe of my uncle had returned. I fancied that he +would treat the whole affair as a mere playful piece of gallantry. +So, with the comfortable conviction that he had had a lesson, +and would think twice before repeating his impertinence, I resolved, +with Milly's approbation, to leave matters as they were.</p> + +<p>Dudley, greatly to my comfort, was huffed with me, and hardly +appeared, and was sulky and silent when he did. I lived then in +the pleasant anticipation of his departure, which, Milly thought, +would be very soon.</p> + +<p>My uncle had his Bible and his consolations; but it cannot +have been pleasant to this old <i>roué</i>, converted though he was—this +refined man of fashion—to see his son grow up an outcast, +and a Tony Lumpkin; for whatever he may have thought of +his natural gifts, he must have known how mere a boor he was.</p> + +<p>I try to recall my then impressions of my uncle's character. +Grizzly and chaotic the image rises—silver head, feet of clay. +I as yet knew little of him.</p> + +<p>I began to perceive that he was what Mary Quince used to +call 'dreadful particular'—I suppose a little selfish and impatient. +He used to get cases of turtle from Liverpool. He drank +claret and hock for his health, and ate woodcock and other light + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page269" id="page269"></a>[pg 261]</span> + +and salutary dainties for the same reason; and was petulant and +vicious about the cooking of these, and the flavour and clearness +of his coffee.</p> + +<p>His conversation was easy, polished, and, with a sentimental +glazing, cold; but across this artificial talk, with its French +rhymes, racy phrases, and fluent eloquence, like a streak of angry +light, would, at intervals, suddenly gleam some dismal thought +of religion. I never could quite satisfy myself whether they were +affectations or genuine, like intermittent thrills of pain.</p> + +<p>The light of his large eyes was very peculiar. I can liken it +to nothing but the sheen of intense moonlight on burnished +metal. But that cannot express it. It glared white and suddenly—almost +fatuous. I thought of Moore's lines whenever I looked +on it:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> +<p>Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give</p> +<p>From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live.</p> + </div> </div> + +<p>I never saw in any other eye the least glimmer of the same +baleful effulgence. His fits, too—his hoverings between life and +death—between intellect and insanity—a dubious, marsh-fire +existence, horrible to look on!</p> + +<p>I was puzzled even to comprehend his feelings toward his +children. Sometimes it seemed to me that he was ready to lay +down his soul for them; at others, he looked and spoke almost +as if he hated them. He talked as if the image of death was always +before him, yet he took a terrible interest in life, while +seemingly dozing away the dregs of his days in sight of his +coffin.</p> + +<p>Oh! Uncle Silas, tremendous figure in the past, burning always +in memory in the same awful lights; the fixed white face +of scorn and anguish! It seems as if the Woman of Endor had +led me to that chamber and showed me a spectre.</p> + +<p>Dudley had not left Bartram-Haugh when a little note reached +me from Lady Knollys. It said—</p> + +<p>'D<small>EAREST</small> M<small>AUD</small>,—I have written by this post to Silas, beseeching +a loan of you and my Cousin Milly. I see no reason your +uncle can possibly have for refusing me; and, therefore, I count +confidently on seeing you both at Elverston to-morrow, to stay +for at least a week. I have hardly a creature to meet you. I have +been disappointed in several visitors; but another time we shall + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page270" id="page270"></a>[pg 262]</span> + +have a gayer house. Tell Milly—with my love—that I will not +forgive her if she fails to accompany you.</p> + +<p>'Believe me ever your affectionate cousin,</p> + +<p class="signature">'M<small>ONICA</small> K<small>NOLLYS</small>.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Milly and I were both afraid that Uncle Silas would refuse his +consent, although we could not divine any sound reason for his +doing so, and there were many in favour of his improving the +opportunity of allowing poor Milly to see some persons of her +own sex above the rank of menials.</p> + +<p>At about twelve o'clock my uncle sent for us, and, to our great +delight, announced his consent, and wished us a very happy excursion.</p> + +<a name="chap42"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLII</h3> + +<h2><i>ELVERSTON AND ITS PEOPLE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>So Milly and I drove through the gabled high street of Feltram +next day. We saw my gracious cousin smoking with a man like +a groom, at the door of the 'Plume of Feathers.' I drew myself +back as we passed, and Milly popped her head out of the window.</p> + +<p>'I'm blessed,' said she, laughing, 'if he hadn't his thumb to +his nose, and winding up his little finger, the way he does with +old Wyat—L'Amour, ye know; and you may be sure he said +something funny, for Jim Jolliter was laughin', with his pipe in +his hand.'</p> + +<p>'I wish I had not seen him, Milly. I feel as if it were an ill +omen. He always looks so cross; and I dare say he wished us +some ill,' I said.</p> + +<p>'No, no, you don't know Dudley: if he were angry, he'd say +nothing that's funny; no, he's not vexed, only shamming vexed.'</p> + +<p>The scenery through which we passed was very pretty. The +road brought us through a narrow and wooded glen. Such + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page271" id="page271"></a>[pg 263]</span> + +studies of ivied rocks and twisted roots! A little stream tinkled +lonely through the hollow. Poor Milly! In her odd way she +made herself companionable. I have sometimes fancied an enjoyment +of natural scenery not so much a faculty as an acquirement. +It is so exquisite in the instructed, so strangely absent +in uneducated humanity. But certainly with Milly it was inborn +and hearty; and so she could enter into my raptures, and requite +them.</p> + +<p>Then over one of those beautiful Derbyshire moors we drove, +and so into a wide wooded hollow, where was our first view of +Cousin Monica's pretty gabled house, beautified with that indescribable +air of shelter and comfort which belongs to an old +English residence, with old timber grouped round it, and something +in its aspect of the quaint old times and bygone merrymakings, +saying sadly, but genially, 'Come in: I bid you welcome. +For two hundred years, or more, have I been the home of +this beloved old family, whose generations I have seen in +the cradle and in the coffin, and whose mirth and sorrows and +hospitalities I remember. All their friends, like you, were welcome; +and you, like them, will here enjoy the warm illusions +that cheat the sad conditions of mortality; and like them you +will go your way, and others succeed you, till at last I, too, shall +yield to the general law of decay, and disappear.'</p> + +<p>By this time poor Milly had grown very nervous; a state +which she described in such very odd phraseology as threw me, +in spite of myself—for I affected an impressive gravity in lecturing +her upon her language—into a hearty fit of laughter.</p> + +<p>I must mention, however, that in certain important points +Milly was very essentially reformed. Her dress, though not very +fashionable, was no longer absurd. And I had drilled her into +speaking and laughing quietly; and for the rest I trusted to the +indulgence which is always, I think, more honestly and easily +obtained from well-bred than from under-bred people.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica was out when we arrived; but we found that +she had arranged a double-bedded room for me and Milly, +greatly to our content; and good Mary Quince was placed in +the dressing-room beside us.</p> + +<p>We had only just commenced our toilet when our hostess +entered, as usual in high spirits, welcomed and kissed us both +again and again. She was, indeed, in extraordinary delight, for + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page272" id="page272"></a>[pg 264]</span> + +she had anticipated some stratagem or evasion to prevent our +visit; and in her usual way she spoke her mind as frankly about +Uncle Silas to poor Milly as she used to do of my dear father +to me.</p> + +<p>'I did not think he would let you come without a battle; and +you know if he chose to be obstinate it would not have been +easy to get you out of the enchanted ground, for so it seems to +be with that awful old wizard in the midst of it. I mean, Silas, +your papa, my dear. Honestly, is not he very like Michael +Scott?'</p> + +<p>'I never saw him,' answered poor Milly. 'At least, that I'm +aware of,' she added, perceiving us smile. 'But I do think he's +a thought like old Michael Dobbs, that sells the ferrets, maybe +you mean him?'</p> + +<p>'Why, you told me, Maud, that you and Milly were reading +Walter Scott's poems. Well, no matter. Michael Scott, my dear, +was a dead wizard, with ever so much silvery hair, lying in his +grave for ever so many years, with just life enough to scowl +when they took his book; and you'll find him in the "Lay of +the Last Minstrel," exactly like your papa, my dear. And my +people tell me that your brother Dudley has been seen drinking +and smoking about Feltram this week. How long does he remain +at home? Not very long, eh? And, Maud, dear, he has not +been making love to you? Well, I see; of course he has. And +<i>apropos</i> of love-making, I hope that impudent creature, Charles +Oakley, has not been teasing you with notes or verses.'</p> + +<p>'Indeed but he has though,' interposed Miss Milly; a good +deal to my chagrin, for I saw no particular reason for placing his +verses in Cousin Monica's hands. So I confessed the two little +copies of verses, with the qualification, however, that I did not +know from whom they came.</p> + +<p>'Well now, dear Maud, have not I told you fifty times over +to have nothing to say to him? I've found out, my dear, he plays, +and he is very much in debt. I've made a vow to pay no more for +him. I've been such a fool, you have no notion; and I'm speaking, +you know, against myself; it would be such a relief if he +were to find a wife to support him; and he has been, I'm told, +very sweet upon a rich old maid—a button-maker's sister, in +Manchester.'</p> + +<p>This arrow was well shot.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page273" id="page273"></a>[pg 265]</span> + +<p>'But don't be frightened: you are richer as well as younger; +and, no doubt, will have your chance first, my dear; and in the +meantime, I dare say, those verses, like Falstaff's <i>billet-doux,</i> you +know, are doing double duty.'</p> + +<p>I laughed, but the button-maker was a secret trouble to me; +and I would have given I know not what that Captain Oakley +were one of the company, that I might treat him with the refined +contempt which his deserts and my dignity demanded.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica busied herself about Milly's toilet, and was a +very useful lady's maid, chatting in her own way all the time; +and, at last, tapping Milly under the chin with her finger, she +said, very complacently—</p> + +<p>'I think I have succeeded, Miss Milly; look in the glass. She +really is a very pretty creature.'</p> + +<p>And Milly blushed, and looked with a shy gratification, which +made her still prettier, on the mirror.</p> + +<p>Milly indeed was very pretty. She looked much taller now +that her dresses were made of the usual length. A little plump +she was, beautifully fair, with such azure eyes, and rich hair.</p> + +<p>'The more you laugh the better, Milly, for you've got very +pretty teeth—very pretty; and if you were my daughter, or if +your father would become president of a college of magicians, +and give you up to me, I venture to say I would place you very +well; and even as it is we must try, my dear.'</p> + +<p>So down to the drawing-room we went; and Cousin Monica +entered, leading us both by the hands.</p> + +<p>By this time the curtains were closed, and the drawing-room +dependent on the pleasant glow of the fire, and the slight provisional +illumination usual before dinner.</p> + +<p>'Here are my two cousins,' began Lady Knollys: 'this is Miss +Ruthyn, of Knowl, whom I take the liberty of calling Maud; +and this is Miss Millicent Ruthyn, Silas's daughter, you know, +whom I venture to call Milly; and they are very pretty, as you +will see, when we get a little more light, and they know it very +well themselves.'</p> + +<p>And as she spoke, a frank-eyed, gentle, prettyish lady, not so +tall as I, but with a very kind face, rose up from a book of prints, +and, smiling, took our hands.</p> + +<p>She was by no means young, as I then counted youth—past +thirty, I suppose—and with an air that was very quiet, and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page274" id="page274"></a>[pg 266]</span> + +friendly, and engaging. She had never been a mere fashionable +woman plainly; but she had the ease and polish of the best +society, and seemed to take a kindly interest both in Milly and +me; and Cousin Monica called her Mary, and sometimes Polly. +That was all I knew of her for the present.</p> + +<p>So very pleasantly the time passed by till the dressing-bell +rang, and we ran away to our room.</p> + +<p>'Did I say anything very bad?' asked poor Milly, standing +exactly before me, so soon as our door was shut.</p> + +<p>'Nothing, Milly; you are doing admirably.'</p> + +<p>'And I do look a great fool, don't I?' she demanded.</p> + +<p>'You look extremely pretty, Milly; and not a bit like a fool.'</p> + +<p>'I watch everything. I think I'll learn it at last; but it comes +a little troublesome at first; and they do talk different from +what I used—you were quite right there.'</p> + +<p>When we returned to the drawing-room, we found the party +already assembled, and chatting, evidently with spirit.</p> + +<p>The village doctor, whose name I forget, a small man, grey, +with shrewd grey eyes, sharp and mulberry nose, whose conflagration +extended to his rugged cheeks, and touched his chin and +forehead, was conversing, no doubt agreeably, with Mary, as +Cousin Monica called her guest.</p> + +<p>Over my shoulder, Milly whispered—</p> + +<p>'Mr. Carysbroke.'</p> + +<p>And Milly was quite right: that gentleman chatting with +Lady Knollys, his elbow resting on the chimney-piece, was, +indeed, our acquaintance of the Windmill Wood. He instantly +recognised us, and met us with his pleased and intelligent smile.</p> + +<p>'I was just trying to describe to Lady Knollys the charming +scenery of the Windmill Wood, among which I was so fortunate +as to make your acquaintance, Miss Ruthyn. Even in this beautiful +county I know of nothing prettier.'</p> + +<p>Then he sketched it, as it were, with a few light but glowing +words.</p> + +<p>'What a sweet scene!' said Cousin Monica: 'only think of +her never bringing me through it. She reserves it, I fancy, for +her romantic adventures; and you, I know, are very benevolent, +Ilbury, and all that kind of thing; but I am not quite certain +that you would have walked along that narrow parapet, over a + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page275" id="page275"></a>[pg 267]</span> + +river, to visit a sick old woman, if you had not happened to see +two very pretty demoiselles on the other side.'</p> + +<p>'What an ill-natured speech! I must either forfeit my character +for disinterested benevolence, so justly admired, or disavow +a motive that does such infinite credit to my taste,' exclaimed +Mr. Carysbroke. 'I think a charitable person would have said +that a philanthropist, in prosecuting his virtuous, but perilous +vocation, was unexpectedly <i>rewarded</i> by a vision of angels.'</p> + +<p>'And with these angels loitered away the time which ought +to have been devoted to good Mother Hubbard, in her fit of lumbago, +and returned without having set eyes on that afflicted +Christian, to amaze his worthy sister with poetic babblings about +wood-nymphs and such pagan impieties,' rejoined Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'Well, be just,' he replied, laughing; 'did not I go next day +and see the patient?'</p> + +<p>'Yes; next day you went by the same route—in quest of the +dryads, I am afraid—and were rewarded by the spectacle of +Mother Hubbard.'</p> + +<p>'Will nobody help a humane man in difficulties?' Mr. Carysbroke +appealed.</p> + +<p>'I do believe,' said the lady whom as yet I knew only as Mary, +'that every word that Monica says is perfectly true.'</p> + +<p>'And if it be so, am I not all the more in need of help? +Truth is simply the most dangerous kind of defamation, and I +really think I'm most cruelly persecuted.'</p> + +<p>At this moment dinner was announced, and a meek and dapper +little clergyman, with smooth pink cheeks, and tresses parted +down the middle, whom I had not seen before, emerged from +shadow.</p> + +<p>This little man was assigned to Milly, Mr. Carysbroke to me, +and I know not how the remaining ladies divided the doctor +between them.</p> + +<p>That dinner, the first at Elverston, I remember as a very +pleasant repast. Everyone talked—it was impossible that conversation +should flag where Lady Knollys was; and Mr. Carysbroke +was very agreeable and amusing. At the other side of the +table, the little pink curate, I was happy to see, was prattling +away, with a modest fluency, in an under-tone to Milly, who +was following my instructions most conscientiously, and speaking + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page276" id="page276"></a>[pg 268]</span> + +in so low a key that I could hardly hear at the opposite side +one word she was saying.</p> + +<p>That night Cousin Monica paid us a visit, as we sat chatting +by the fire in our room; and I told her—</p> + +<p>'I have just been telling Milly what an impression she has +made. The pretty little clergyman—<i>il en est épris</i>—he has +evidently quite lost his heart to her. I dare say he'll preach next +Sunday on some of King Solomon's wise sayings about the irresistible +strength of women.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' said Lady Knollys, 'or maybe on the sensible text, +"Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour," +and so forth. At all events, I may say, Milly, whoso +findeth a husband such as he, findeth a tolerably good thing. He +is an exemplary little creature, second son of Sir Harry Biddlepen, +with a little independent income of his own, beside his +church revenues of ninety pounds a year; and I don't think a +more harmless and docile little husband could be found anywhere; +and I think, Miss Maud, <i>you</i> seemed a good deal interested, +too.'</p> + +<p>I laughed and blushed, I suppose; and Cousin Monica, skipping +after her wont to quite another matter, said in her odd +frank way—</p> + +<p>'And how has Silas been?—not cross, I hope, or very odd. +There was a rumour that your brother, Dudley, had gone a soldiering +to India, Milly, or somewhere; but that was all a story, +for he has turned up, just as usual. And what does he mean to +do with himself? He has got some money now—your poor +father's will, Maud. Surely he doesn't mean to go on lounging +and smoking away his life among poachers, and prize-fighters, +and worse people. He ought to go to Australia, like Thomas +Swain, who, they say, is making a fortune—a great fortune—and +coming home again. That's what your brother Dudley should +do, if he has either sense or spirit; but I suppose he won't—too +long abandoned to idleness and low company—and he'll not +have a shilling left in a year or two. Does he know, I wonder, +that his father has served a notice or something on Dr. Bryerly, +telling him to pay sixteen hundred pounds of poor Austin's legacy +to <i>him</i>, and saying that he has paid debts of the young man, +and holds his acknowledgments to that amount? He won't have +a guinea in a year if he stays here. I'd give fifty pounds he + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277" id="page277"></a>[pg 269]</span> + +was in Van Diemen's Land—not that I care for the cub, Milly, +any more than you do; but I really don't see any honest business +he has in England.'</p> + +<p>Milly gaped in a total puzzle as Lady Knollys rattled on.</p> + +<p>'You know, Milly, you must not be talking about this when +you go home to Bartram, because Silas would prevent your coming +to me any more if he thought I spoke so freely; but I can't +help it: so you must promise to be more discreet than I. And +I am told that all kinds of claims are about to be pressed against +him, now that he is thought to have got some money; and he +has been cutting down oak and selling the bark, Doctor Bryerly +has been told, in that Windmill Wood; and he has kilns there +for burning charcoal, and got a man from Lancashire who understands +it—Hawk, or something like that.'</p> + +<p>'Ay, Hawkes—Dickon Hawkes; that's Pegtop, you know, +Maud,' said Milly.</p> + +<p>'Well, I dare say; but a man of very bad character, Dr. Bryerly +says; and he has written to Mr. Danvers about it—for that +is what they call waste, cutting down and selling the timber, and +the oakbark, and burning the willows, and other trees that are +turned into charcoal. It is all <i>waste</i>, and Dr. Bryerly is about +to put a stop to it.'</p> + +<p>'Has he got your carriage for you, Maud, and your horses?' +asked Cousin Monica, suddenly.</p> + +<p>'They have not come yet, but in a few weeks, Dudley says, +positively—'</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica laughed a little and shook her head.</p> + +<p>'Yes, Maud, the carriage and horses will always be coming +in a few weeks, till the time is over; and meanwhile the old +travelling chariot and post-horses will do very well;' and she +laughed a little again.</p> + +<p>'That's why the stile's pulled away at the paling, I suppose; +and Beauty—Meg Hawkes, that is—is put there to stop us going +through; for I often spied the smoke beyond the windmill,' +observed Milly.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica listened with interest, and nodded silently.</p> + +<p>I was very much shocked. It seemed to me quite incredible. +I think Lady Knollys read my amazement and my exalted estimate +of the heinousness of the procedure in my face, for she +said—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278" id="page278"></a>[pg 270]</span> + +<p>'You know we can't quite condemn Silas till we have heard +what he has to say. He may have done it in ignorance; or, it is +just possible, he may have the right.'</p> + +<p>'Quite true. He may have the right to cut down trees at +Bartram-Haugh. At all events, I am sure he thinks he has,' I +echoed.</p> + +<p>The fact was, that I would not avow to myself a suspicion of +Uncle Silas. Any falsehood there opened an abyss beneath my +feet into which I dared not look.</p> + +<p>'And now, dear girls, good-night. You must be tired. We +breakfast at a quarter past nine—not too early for you, I know.'</p> + +<p>And so saying, she kissed us, smiling, and was gone.</p> + +<p>I was so unpleasantly occupied, for some time after her departure, +with the knaveries said to be practised among the +dense cover of the Windmill Wood, that I did not immediately +recollect that we had omitted to ask her any particulars about +her guests.</p> + +<p>'Who can Mary be?' asked Milly.</p> + +<p>'Cousin Monica says she's engaged to be married, and I think +I heard the Doctor call her <i>Lady</i> Mary, and I intended asking +her ever so much about her; but what she told us about cutting +down the trees, and all that, quite put it out of my head. We +shall have time enough to-morrow, however, to ask questions. +I like her very much, I know.'</p> + +<p>'And I think,' said Milly, 'it is to Mr. Carysbroke she's to be +married.'</p> + +<p>'Do you?' said I, remembering that he had sat beside her for +more than a quarter of an hour after tea in very close and low-toned +conversation; 'and have you any particular reason?' I +asked.</p> + +<p>'Well, I heard her once or twice call him "dear," and she +called him his Christian name, just like Lady Knollys did—Ilbury, +I think—and I saw him gi' her a sly kiss as she was going +up-stairs.'</p> + +<p>I laughed.</p> + +<p>'Well, Milly,' I said, 'I remarked something myself, I thought, +like confidential relations; but if you really saw them kiss on the +staircase, the question is pretty well settled.'</p> + +<p>'Ay, lass.'</p> + +<p>'You're not to say <i>lass</i>.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page279" id="page279"></a>[pg 271]</span> + +<p>'Well, <i>Maud, then</i>. I did see them with the corner of my +eye, and my back turned, when they did not think I could spy +anything, as plain as I see you now.'</p> + +<p>I laughed again; but I felt an odd pang—something of +mortification—something of regret; but I smiled very gaily, as I +stood before the glass, un-making my toilet preparatory to bed.</p> + +<p>'Maud—Maud—fickle Maud!—What, Captain Oakley already +superseded! and Mr. Carysbroke—oh! humiliation—engaged.' +So I smiled on, very much vexed; and being afraid lest I had +listened with too apparent an interest to this impostor, I sang a +verse of a gay little chanson, and tried to think of Captain Oakley, +who somehow had become rather silly.</p> + +<a name="chap43"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLIII</h3> + +<h2><i>NEWS AT BARTRAM GATE</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Milly and I, thanks to our early Bartram hours, were first down +next morning; and so soon as Cousin Monica appeared we attacked +her.</p> + +<p>'So Lady Mary is the <i>fiancée</i> of Mr. Carysbroke,' said I, very +cleverly; 'and I think it was very wicked of you to try and involve +me in a flirtation with him yesterday.'</p> + +<p>'And who told you that, pray?' asked Lady Knollys, with a +pleasant little laugh.</p> + +<p>'Milly and I discovered it, simple as we stand here,' I +answered.</p> + +<p>'But you did not flirt with Mr. Carysbroke, Maud, did you?' +she asked.</p> + +<p>'No, certainly not; but that was not your doing, wicked +woman, but my discretion. And now that we know your secret, +you must tell us all about her, and all about him; and in the +first place, what is her name—Lady Mary what?' I demanded.</p> + +<p>'Who would have thought you so cunning? Two country +misses—two little nuns from the cloisters of Bartram! Well, I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page280" id="page280"></a>[pg 272]</span> + +suppose I must answer. It is vain trying to hide anything from +you; but how on earth did you find it out?'</p> + +<p>'We'll tell you that presently, but you shall first tell us who +she is,' I persisted.</p> + +<p>'Well, that I will, of course, without compulsion. She is Lady +Mary Carysbroke,' said Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'A relation of Mr. Carysbroke's,' I asserted.</p> + +<p>'Yes, a relation; but who told you he was Mr. Carysbroke?' +asked Cousin Monica.</p> + +<p>'Milly told me, when we saw him in the Windmill Wood.'</p> + +<p>'And who told you, Milly?'</p> + +<p>'It was L'Amour,' answered Milly, with her blue eyes very +wide open.</p> + +<p>'What does the child mean? L'Amour! You don't mean +<i>love</i>?' exclaimed Lady Knollys, puzzled in her turn.</p> + +<p>'I mean old Wyat; <i>she</i> told me and the Governor.'</p> + +<p>'You're <i>not</i> to say that,' I interposed.</p> + +<p>'You mean your father?' suggested Lady Knollys.</p> + +<p>'Well, yes; father told her, and so I knew him.'</p> + +<p>'What could he mean?' exclaimed Lady Knollys, laughing, as +it were, in soliloquy; 'and I did not mention his name, I recollect +now. He recognised you, and you him, when you came into +the room yesterday; and now you must tell me how you discovered +that he and Lady Mary were to be married.'</p> + +<p>So Milly restated her evidence, and Lady Knollys laughed +unaccountably heartily; and she said—</p> + +<p>'They <i>will</i> be <i>so</i> confounded! but they deserve it; and, +remember, +<i>I</i> did not say so.'</p> + +<p>'Oh! we acquit you.'</p> + +<p>'All I say is, such a deceitful, dangerous pair of girls—all +things considered—I never heard of before,' exclaimed Lady +Knollys. 'There's no such thing as conspiring in your presence.'</p> + +<p>'Good morning. I hope you slept well.' She was addressing +the lady and gentleman who were just entering the room from +the conservatory. 'You'll hardly sleep so well to-night, when you +have learned what eyes are upon you. Here are two very pretty +detectives who have found out your secret, and entirely by your +imprudence and their own cleverness have discovered that you +are a pair of betrothed lovers, about to ratify your vows at the +hymeneal altar. I assure you I did not tell of you; you betrayed + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page281" id="page281"></a>[pg 273]</span> + +yourselves. If you will talk in that confidential way on sofas, +and call one another stealthily by your Christian names, and actually +kiss at the foot of the stairs, while a clever detective is +scaling them, apparently with her back toward you, you must +only take the consequences, and be known prematurely as the +hero and heroine of the forthcoming paragraph in the "Morning +Post."'</p> + +<p>Milly and I were horribly confounded, but Cousin Monica was +resolved to place us all upon the least formal terms possible, and +I believe she had set about it in the right way.</p> + +<p>'And now, girls, I am going to make a counter-discovery, +which, I fear, a little conflicts with yours. This Mr. Carysbroke +is Lord Ilbury, brother of this Lady Mary; and it is all my +fault for not having done my honours better; but you see what +clever match-making little creatures they are.'</p> + +<p>'You can't think how flattered I am at being made the subject +of a theory, even a mistaken one, by Miss Ruthyn.'</p> + +<p>And so, after our modest fit was over, Milly and I were very +merry, like the rest, and we all grew a great deal more intimate +that morning.</p> + +<p>I think altogether those were the pleasantest and happiest days +of my life: gay, intelligent, and kindly society at home; charming +excursions—sometimes riding—sometimes by carriage—to distant +points of beauty in the county. Evenings varied with music, +reading, and spirited conversation. Now and then a visitor for a +day or two, and constantly some neighbour from the town, or +its dependencies, dropt in. Of these I but remember tall old Miss +Wintletop, most entertaining of rustic old maids, with her nice +lace and thick satin, and her small, kindly round face—pretty, I +dare say, in other days, and now frosty, but kindly—who told +us such delightful old stories of the county in her father's and +grandfather's time; who knew the lineage of every family in it, +and could recount all its duels and elopements; give us illustrative +snatches from old election squibs, and lines from epitaphs, +and tell exactly where all the old-world highway robberies +had been committed: how it fared with the chief delinquents +after the assizes; and, above all, where, and of what sort, the goblins +and elves of the county had made themselves seen, from the +phantom post-boy, who every third night crossed Windale Moor, +by the old coach-road, to the fat old ghost, in mulberry velvet, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page282" id="page282"></a>[pg 274]</span> + +who showed his great face, crutch, and ruffles, by moonlight, at +the bow window of the old court-house that was taken down in +1803.</p> + +<p>You cannot imagine what agreeable evenings we passed in +this society, or how rapidly my good Cousin Milly improved in +it. I remember well the intense suspense in which she and I +awaited the answer from Bartram-Haugh to kind Cousin Monica's +application for an extension of our leave of absence.</p> + +<p>It came, and with it a note from Uncle Silas, which was curious, +and, therefore, is printed here:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'M<small>Y DEAR</small> L<small>ADY</small> K<small>NOLLYS</small>,—To +your kind letter I say yes +(that is, for another week, not a fortnight), with all my heart. I +am glad to hear that my starlings chatter so pleasantly; at all +events the refrain is not that of Sterne's. They can get out; and +do get out; and shall get out as much as they please. I am no +gaoler, and shut up nobody but myself. I have always thought +that young people have too little liberty. My principle has been +to make little free men and women of them from the first. In +morals, altogether—in intellect, more than we allow—<i>self</i>-education +is that which abides; and <i>it</i> only begins where constraint +ends. Such is my theory. My practice is consistent. Let them remain +for a week longer, as you say. The horses shall be at Elverston +on Tuesday, the 7th. I shall be more than usually sad +and solitary till their return; so pray, I selfishly entreat, do not +extend their absence. You will smile, remembering how little +my health will allow me to see of them, even when at home; +but as Chaulieu so prettily says—I stupidly forget the words, +but the sentiment is this—"although concealed by a sylvan wall +of leaves, impenetrable—(he is pursuing his favourite nymphs +through the alleys and intricacies of a rustic labyrinth)—yet, +your songs, your prattle, and your laughter, faint and far away, +inspire my fancy; and, through my ears, I see your unseen +smiles, your blushes, your floating tresses, and your ivory feet; +and so, though sad, am happy; though alone, in company;"—and +such is my case.</p> + +<p>'One only request, and I have done. Pray remind them of a +promise made to me. The Book of Life—the fountain of life—it +must be drunk of, night and morning, or their spiritual life +expires.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page283" id="page283"></a>[pg 275]</span> + +<p>'And now, Heaven bless and keep you, my dear cousin; and +with all assurances of affection to my beloved niece and my +child, believe me ever yours affectionately.</p> + +<p class="signature">'S<small>ILAS</small> R<small>UTHYN</small>.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Said Cousin Monica, with a waggish smile—</p> + +<p>'And so, girls, you have Chaulieu and the evangelists; the +French rhymester in his alley, and Silas in the valley of the +shadow of death; perfect liberty, and a peremptory order to +return in a week;—all illustrating one another. Poor Silas! old +as he is, I don't think his religion fits him.'</p> + +<p><i>I</i> really rather liked his letter. I was struggling hard to think +well of him, and Cousin Monica knew it; and I really think if +I had not been by, she would often have been less severe on him.</p> + +<p>As we were all sitting pleasantly about the breakfast table a +day or two after, the sun shining on the pleasant wintry landscape, +Cousin Monica suddenly exclaimed—</p> + +<p>'I quite forgot to tell you that Charles Oakley has written +to say he is coming on Wednesday. I really don't want him. Poor +Charlie! I wonder how they manage those doctors' certificates. +I know nothing ails him, and he'd be much better with his +regiment.'</p> + +<p>Wednesday!—how odd. Exactly the day after my departure. +I tried to look perfectly unconcerned. Lady Knollys had addressed +herself more to Lady Mary and Milly than to me, and +nobody in particular was looking at me. Notwithstanding, with +my usual perversity, I felt myself blushing with a brilliancy that +may have been very becoming, but which was so intolerably provoking +that I would have risen and left the room but that matters +would have been so infinitely worse. I could have boxed my +odious ears. I could almost have jumped from the window.</p> + +<p>I felt that Lord Ilbury saw it. I saw Lady Mary's eyes for a +moment resting gravely on my tell-tale—my lying cheeks—for I +really had begun to think much less celestially of Captain Oakley. +I was angry with Cousin Monica, who, knowing my blushing +infirmity, had mentioned her nephew so suddenly while I +was strapped by etiquette in my chair, with my face to the +window, and two pair of most disconcerting eyes, at least, opposite. +I was angry with myself—generally angry—refused more +tea rather dryly, and was laconic to Lord Ilbury, all which, of + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284" id="page284"></a>[pg 276]</span> + +course, was very cross and foolish; and afterwards, from my +bed-room window, I saw Cousin Monica and Lady Mary among +the flowers, under the drawing-room window, talking, as I +instinctively knew, of that little incident. I was standing at the +glass.</p> + +<p>'My odious, stupid, <i>perjured</i> face' I whispered, furiously, at +the same time stamping on the floor, and giving myself quite a +smart slap on the cheek. 'I <i>can't</i> go down—I'm ready to cry—I've +a mind to return to Bartram to-day; I am <i>always</i> blushing; +and I wish that impudent Captain Oakley was at the bottom of +the sea.'</p> + +<p>I was, perhaps, thinking more of Lord Ilbury than I was +aware; and I am sure if Captain Oakley had arrived that day, +I should have treated him with most unjustifiable rudeness.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding this unfortunate blush, the remainder of +our visit passed very happily for me. No one who has not experienced +it can have an idea how intimate a small party, such +as ours, will grow in a short time in a country house.</p> + +<p>Of course, a young lady of a well-regulated mind cannot possibly +care a pin about any one of the opposite sex until she is +well assured that he is beginning, at least, to like her better than +all the world beside; but I could not deny to myself that I was +rather anxious to know more about Lord Ilbury than I actually +did know.</p> + +<p>There was a 'Peerage,' in its bright scarlet and gold uniform, +corpulent and tempting, upon the little marble table in the +drawing-room. I had many opportunities of consulting it, but +I never could find courage to do so.</p> + +<p>For an inexperienced person it would have been a matter of +several minutes, and during those minutes what awful risk of +surprise and detection. One day, all being quiet, I did venture, +and actually, with a beating heart, got so far as to find out the +letter 'Il,' when I heard a step outside the door, which opened +a little bit, and I heard Lady Knollys, luckily arrested at +the entrance, talk some sentences outside, her hand still upon +the door-handle. I shut the book, as Mrs. Bluebeard might the +door of the chamber of horrors at the sound of her husband's +step, and skipped to a remote part of the room, where Cousin +Knollys found me in a mysterious state of agitation.</p> + +<p>On any other subject I would have questioned Cousin Monica + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page285" id="page285"></a>[pg 277]</span> + +unhesitatingly; upon this, somehow, I was dumb. I distrusted +myself, and dreaded my odious habit of blushing, and knew +that I should look so horribly guilty, and become so agitated +and odd, that she would have reasonably concluded that I had +quite lost my heart to him.</p> + +<p>After the lesson I had received, and my narrow escape of detection +in the very act, you may be sure I never trusted myself +in the vicinity of that fat and cruel 'Peerage,' which possessed +the secret, but would not disclose without compromising me.</p> + +<p>In this state of tantalizing darkness and conjecture I should +have departed, had not Cousin Monica quite spontaneously relieved +me.</p> + +<p>The night before our departure she sat with us in our room, +chatting a little farewell gossip.</p> + +<p>'And what do you think of Ilbury?' she asked.</p> + +<p>'I think him clever and accomplished, and amusing; but he +sometimes appears to me very melancholy—that is, for a few minutes +together—and then, I fancy, with an effort, re-engages in +our conversation.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, poor Ilbury! He lost his brother only about five months +since, and is only beginning to recover his spirits a little. They +were very much attached, and people thought that he would +have succeeded to the title, had he lived, because Ilbury is +<i>difficile</i>—or +a philosopher—or a <i>Saint Kevin</i>; and, in fact, has begun +to be treated as a premature old bachelor.'</p> + +<p>'What a charming person his sister, Lady Mary, is. She has +made me promise to write to her,' I said, I suppose—such hypocrites +are we—to prove to Cousin Knollys that I did not care +particularly to hear anything more about him.</p> + +<p>'Yes, and so devoted to him. He came down here, and took +The Grange, for change of scene and solitude—of all things the +worst for a man in grief—a morbid whim, as he is beginning to +find out; for he is very glad to stay here, and confesses that he +is much better since he came. His letters are still addressed to +him as Mr. Carysbroke; for he fancied if his rank were known, +that the county people would have been calling upon him, and +so he would have found himself soon involved in a tiresome +round of dinners, and must have gone somewhere else. You +saw him, Milly, at Bartram, before Maud came?'</p> + +<p>Yes, she had, when he called there to see her father.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page286" id="page286"></a>[pg 278]</span> + +<p>'He thought, as he had accepted the trusteeship, that he could +hardly, residing so near, omit to visit Silas. He was very much +struck and interested by him, and he has a better opinion of +him—you are not angry, Milly—than some ill-natured people I +could name; and he says that the cutting down of the trees will +turn out to have been a mere slip. But these slips don't occur +with clever men in other things; and some persons have a way +of always making them in their own favour. And, to talk of +other things, I suspect that you and Milly will probably see +Ilbury at Bartram; for I think he likes you very much.'</p> + +<p><i>You</i>; did she mean <i>both</i>, or only me?</p> + +<p>So our pleasant visit was over. Milly's good little curate had +been much thrown in her way by our deep and dangerous +cousin Monica. He was most laudably steady; and his flirtation +advanced upon the field of theology, where, happily, Milly's +little reading had been concentrated. A mild and earnest interest +in poor, pretty Milly's orthodoxy was the leading +feature of his case; and I was highly amused at her references +to me, when we had retired at night, upon the points which she +had disputed with him, and her anxious reports of their low-toned +conferences, carried on upon a sequestered ottoman, +where he patted and stroked his crossed leg, as he smiled tenderly +and shook his head at her questionable doctrine. Milly's +reverence for her instructor, and his admiration, grew daily; +and he was known among us as Milly's confessor.</p> + +<p>He took luncheon with us on the day of our departure, and +with an adroit privacy, which in a layman would have been sly, +presented her, in right of his holy calling, with a little book, +the binding of which was mediaeval and costly, and whose letter-press +dealt in a way which he commended, with some points on +which she was not satisfactory; and she found on the fly-leaf +this little inscription:—'Presented to Miss Millicent Ruthyn +by an earnest well-wisher, 1st December 1844.' A text, very neatly +penned, followed this; and the 'presentation' was made unctiously +indeed, but with a blush, as well as the accustomed smile, +and with eyes that were lowered.</p> + +<p>The early crimson sun of December had gone down behind +the hills before we took our seats in the carriage.</p> + +<p>Lord Ilbury leaned with his elbow on the carriage window, +looking in, and he said to me—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page287" id="page287"></a>[pg 279]</span> + +<p>'I really don't know what we shall do, Miss Ruthyn; we +shall all feel so lonely. For myself, I think I shall run away to +Grange.'</p> + +<p>This appeared to me as nearly perfect eloquence as human +lips could utter.</p> + +<p>His hand still rested on the window, and the Rev. Sprigge +Biddlepen was standing with a saddened smirk on the door +steps, when the whip smacked, the horses scrambled into motion, +and away we rolled down the avenue, leaving behind us the +pleasantest house and hostess in the world, and trotting fleetly +into darkness towards Bartram-Haugh.</p> + +<p>We were both rather silent. Milly had her book in her lap, +and I saw her every now and then try to read her 'earnest well-wisher's' +little inscription, but there was not light to read by.</p> + +<p>When we reached the great gate of Bartram-Haugh it was +dark. Old Crowl, who kept the gate, I heard enjoining the postilion +to make no avoidable noise at the hall-door, for the odd +but startling reason that he believed my uncle 'would be dead +by this time.'</p> + +<p>Very much shocked and frightened, we stopped the carriage, +and questioned the tremulous old porter.</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas, it seemed, had been 'silly-ish' all yesterday, and +'could not be woke this morning,' and 'the doctor had been +here twice, being now in the house.'</p> + +<p>'Is he better?' I asked, tremblingly.</p> + +<p>'Not as I'm aweer on, Miss; he lay at God's mercy two hours +agone; 'appen he's in heaven be this time.'</p> + +<p>'Drive on—drive fast,' I said to the driver. 'Don't be frightened, +Milly; please Heaven we shall find all going well.'</p> + +<p>After some delay, during which my heart sank, and I quite +gave up Uncle Silas, the aged little servant-man opened the +door, and trotted shakily down the steps to the carriage side.</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas had been at death's door for hours; the question +of life had trembled in the scale; but now the doctor said 'he +might do.'</p> + +<p>'Where was the doctor?'</p> + +<p>'In master's room; he blooded him three hours agone.'</p> + +<p>I don't think that Milly was so frightened as I. My heart beat, +and I was trembling so that I could hardly get up-stairs.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page288" id="page288"></a>[pg 280]</span> + + +<a name="chap44"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLIV</h3> + +<h2><i>A FRIEND ARISES</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>At the top of the great staircase I was glad to see the friendly +face of Mary Quince, who stood, candle in hand, greeting us +with many little courtesies, and a very haggard and pallid smile.</p> + +<p>'Very welcome, Miss, hoping you are very well.'</p> + +<p>'All well, and you are well, Mary? and oh! tell us quickly +how is Uncle Silas?'</p> + +<p>'We thought he was gone, Miss, this morning, but doing +fairly now; doctor says in a trance like. I was helping old Wyat +most of the day, and was there when doctor blooded him, an' he +spoke at last; but he must be awful weak, he took a deal o' +blood from his arm, Miss; I held the basin.'</p> + +<p>'And he's better—decidedly better?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Well, he's better, doctor says; he talked some, and doctor +says if he goes off asleep again, and begins a-snoring like he +did before, we're to loose the bandage, and let him bleed till he +comes to his self again; which, it seems to me and Wyat, is the +same thing a'most as saying he's to be killed off-hand, for I don't +believe he has a drop to spare, as you'll say likewise, Miss, if +you'll please look in the basin.'</p> + +<p>This was not an invitation with which I cared to comply. I +thought I was going to faint. I sat on the stairs and sipped a +little water, and Quince sprinkled a little in my face, and my +strength returned.</p> + +<p>Milly must have felt her father's danger more than I, for she +was affectionate, and loved him from habit and relation, although +he was not kind to her. But I was more nervous and +more impetuous, and my feelings both stimulated and overpowered +me more easily. The moment I was able to stand I said—thinking +of nothing but the one idea—</p> + +<p>'We must see him—<i>come</i>, Milly.'</p> + +<p>I entered his sitting-room; a common 'dip' candle hanging + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page289" id="page289"></a>[pg 281]</span> + +like the tower of Pisa all to one side, with a dim, long wick, in +a greasy candlestick, profaned the table of the fastidious invalid. +The light was little better than darkness, and I crossed the +room swiftly, still transfixed by the one idea of seeing my uncle.</p> + +<p>His bed-room door beside the fireplace stood partly open, and +I looked in.</p> + +<p>Old Wyat, a white, high-cauled ghost, was pottering in her +slippers in the shadow at the far side of the bed. The doctor, a +stout little bald man, with a paunch and a big bunch of seals, +stood with his back to the fireplace, which corresponded with +that in the next room, eyeing his patient through the curtains +of the bed with a listless sort of importance.</p> + +<p>The head of the large four-poster rested against the opposite +wall. Its foot was presented toward the fireplace; but the curtains +at the side, which alone I could see from my position, were +closed.</p> + +<p>The little doctor knew me, and thinking me, I suppose, a +person of consequence, removed his hands from behind him, +suffering the skirts of his coat to fall forward, and with great +celerity and gravity made me a low but important bow; then +choosing more particularly to make my acquaintance he further +advanced, and with another reverence he introduced himself as +Doctor Jolks, in a murmured diapason. He bowed me back +again into my uncle's study, and the light of old Wyat's dreadful +candle.</p> + +<p>Doctor Jolks was suave and pompous. I longed for a fussy +practitioner who would have got over the ground in half the +time.</p> + +<p>Coma, madam; coma. Miss Ruthyn, your uncle, I may tell +you, has been in a very critical state; highly so. Coma of the +most obstinate type. He would have sunk—he must have gone, +in fact, had I not resorted to a very extreme remedy, and bled +him freely, which happily told precisely as we could have +wished. A wonderful constitution—a marvellous +constitution—prodigious nervous fibre; the greatest pity in the world he +won't give himself fair play. His habits, you know, are quite, I +may say, destructive. We do our best—we do all we can, but if +the patient won't cooperate it can't possibly end satisfactorily.'</p> + +<p>And Jolks accompanied this with an awful shrug. 'Is there + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page290" id="page290"></a>[pg 282]</span> + +<i>anything</i>? Do you think change of air? What an awful complaint +it is,' I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>He smiled, mysteriously looking down, and shook his head +undertaker-like.</p> + +<p>'Why, we can hardly call it a <i>complaint</i>, Miss Ruthyn. I look +upon it he has been poisoned—he has had, you understand me,' +he pursued, observing my startled look, 'an overdose of opium; +you know he takes opium habitually; he takes it in laudanum, +he takes it in water, and, most dangerous of all, he takes it +solid, in lozenges. I've known people take it moderately. I've +known people take it to excess, <i>but</i> they all were particular as +to <i>measure,</i> and <i>that</i> is exactly the point I've tried to +impress upon him. The habit, of course, you understand is formed, +there's no uprooting that; but he won't <i>measure</i>—he goes by +the eye and by sensation, which I need not tell you, Miss +Ruthyn, is going by <i>chance;</i> and opium, as no doubt you are +aware, is strictly a poison; a poison, no doubt, which habit will +enable you to partake of, I may say, in considerable quantities, +without fatal consequences, but still a poison; and to exhibit +a poison <i>so</i>, is, I need scarcely tell you, to trifle with death. He +has been so threatened, and for a time he changes his haphazard +mode of dealing with it, and then returns; he may escape—of +course, that is possible—but he may any day overdo the thing. +I don't think the present crisis will result seriously. I am very +glad, independently of the honour of making your acquaintance, +Miss Ruthyn, that you and your cousin have returned; +for, however zealous, I fear the servants are deficient in +intelligence; and as in the event of a recurrence of the +symptoms—which, +however, is not probable—I would beg to inform you of +their nature, and how exactly best to deal with them.'</p> + +<p>So upon these points he delivered us a pompous little lecture, +and begged that either Milly or I would remain in the room +with the patient until his return at two or three o'clock in the +morning; a reappearance of the coma 'might be very bad indeed.'</p> + +<p>Of course Milly and I did as we were directed. We sat by the +fire, scarcely daring to whisper. Uncle Silas, about whom a new +and dreadful suspicion began to haunt me, lay still and motionless +as if he were actually dead.</p> + +<p>'Had he attempted to poison himself?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page291" id="page291"></a>[pg 283]</span> + +<p>If he believed his position to be as desperate as Lady Knollys +had described it, was this, after all, improbable? There were +strange wild theories, I had been told, mixed up in his religion.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, at an hour's interval, a sign of life would come—a +moan from that tall sheeted figure in the bed—a moan and a +pattering of the lips. Was it prayer—<i>what</i> was it? who could +guess what thoughts were passing behind that white-fillited +forehead?</p> + +<p>I had peeped at him: a white cloth steeped in vinegar and +water was folded round his head; his great eyes were closed, so +were his marble lips; his figure straight, thin, and long, dressed +in a white dressing-gown, looked like a corpse 'laid out' in the +bed; his gaunt bandaged arm lay outside the sheet that covered +his body.</p> + +<p>With this awful image of death we kept our vigil, until poor +Milly grew so sleepy that old Wyat proposed that she should +take her place and watch with me.</p> + +<p>Little as I liked the crone with the high-cauled cap, she +would, at all events, keep awake, which Milly could not. And +so at one o'clock this new arrangement began.</p> + +<p>'Mr. Dudley Ruthyn is not at home?' I whispered to old +Wyat.</p> + +<p>'He went away wi' himself yesternight, to Cloperton, Miss, +to see the wrestling; it was to come off this morning.'</p> + +<p>'Was he sent for?'</p> + +<p>'Not he.'</p> + +<p>'And why not?'</p> + +<p>'He would na' leave the sport for this, I'm thinking,' and +the old woman grinned uglily.</p> + +<p>'When is he to return?'</p> + +<p>'When he wants money.'</p> + +<p>So we grew silent, and again I thought of suicide, and of the +unhappy old man, who just then whispered a sentence or two +to himself with a sigh.</p> + +<p>For the next hour he had been quite silent, and old Wyat +informed me that she must go down for candles. Ours were already +burnt down to the sockets.</p> + +<p>'There's a candle in the next room,' I suggested, hating the +idea of being left alone with the patient.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page292" id="page292"></a>[pg 284]</span> + +<p>'Hoot! Miss. I <i>dare</i> na' set a candle but wax in his presence,' +whispered the old woman, scornfully.</p> + +<p>'I think if we were to stir the fire, and put on a little more +coal, we should have a great deal of light.'</p> + +<p>'He'll ha' the candles,' said Dame Wyat, doggedly; and she +tottered from the chamber, muttering to herself; and I heard +her take her candle from the next room and depart, shutting +the outer door after her.</p> + +<p>Here was I then alone, but for this unearthly companion, +whom I feared inexpressibly, at two o'clock, in the vast old +house of Bartram.</p> + +<p>I stirred the fire. It was low, and would not blaze. I stood up, +and, with my hand on the mantelpiece, endeavoured to think +of cheerful things. But it was a struggle against wind and tide—vain; +and so I drifted away into haunted regions.</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas was perfectly still. I would not suffer myself to +think of the number of dark rooms and passages which now +separated me from the other living tenants of the house. I +awaited with a false composure the return of old Wyat.</p> + +<p>Over the mantelpiece was a looking-glass. At another time +this might have helped to entertain my solitary moments, but +now I did not like to venture a peep. A small thick Bible lay +on the chimneypiece, and leaning its back against the mirror, I +began to read in it with a mind as attentively directed as I +could. While so engaged in turning over the leaves, I lighted +upon two or three odd-looking papers, which had been folded +into it. One was a broad printed thing, with names and dates +written into blank spaces, and was about the size of a quarter +of a yard of very broad ribbon. The others were mere scraps, +with 'Dudley Ruthyn' penned in my cousin's vulgar round-hand +at the foot. While I folded and replaced these, I really don't +know what caused me to fancy that something was moving +behind me, as I stood with my back toward the bed. I do not +recollect any sound whatever; but instinctively I glanced into +the mirror, and my eyes were instantly fixed by what I saw.</p> + +<p>The figure of Uncle Silas rose up, and dressed in a long +white morning gown, slid over the end of the bed, and with +two or three swift noiseless steps, stood behind me, with a death-like +scowl and a simper. Preternaturally tall and thin, he stood +for a moment almost touching me, with the white bandage + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page293" id="page293"></a>[pg 285]</span> + +pinned across his forehead, his bandaged arm stiffly by his side, +and diving over my shoulder, with his long thin hand he +snatched the Bible, and whispered over my head—'The serpent +beguiled her and she did eat;' and after a momentary pause, he +glided to the farthest window, and appeared to look out upon +the midnight prospect.</p> + +<p>It was cold, but he did not seem to feel it. With the same +inflexible scowl and smile, he continued to look out for several +minutes, and then with a great sigh, he sat down on the +side of his bed, his face immovably turned towards me, with +the same painful look.</p> + +<p>It seemed to me an hour before old Wyat came back; and +never was lover made happier at sight of his mistress than I to +behold that withered crone.</p> + +<p>You may be sure I did not prolong my watch. There was now +plainly no risk of my uncle's relapsing into lethargy. I had a +long hysterical fit of weeping when I got into my room, with +honest Mary Quince by my side.</p> + +<p>Whenever I closed my eyes, the face of Uncle Silas was before +me, as I had seen it reflected in the glass. The sorceries of +Bartram were enveloping me once more.</p> + +<p>Next morning the doctor said he was quite out of danger, but +very weak. Milly and I saw him; and again in our afternoon +walk we saw the doctor marching under the trees in the direction +of the Windmill Wood.</p> + +<p>'Going down to see that poor girl there?' he said, when he +had made his salutation, prodding with his levelled stick in the +direction. 'Hawke, or Hawkes, I think.'</p> + +<p>'Beauty's sick, Maud,' exclaimed Milly.</p> + +<p>'<i>Hawkes</i>. She's upon my dispensary list. Yes,' said the doctor, +looking into his little note-book—'Hawkes.'</p> + +<p>'And what is her complaint?'</p> + +<p>'Rheumatic fever.'</p> + +<p>'Not infectious?'</p> + +<p>'Not the least—no more, as we say, Miss Ruthyn, than a +broken leg,' and he laughed obligingly.</p> + +<p>So soon as the doctor had departed, Milly and I agreed to +follow to Hawkes' cottage and enquire more particularly how +she was. To say truth, I am afraid it was rather for the sake +of giving our walk a purpose and a point of termination, than + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page294" id="page294"></a>[pg 286]</span> + +for any very charitable interest we might have felt in the patient.</p> + +<p>Over the inequalities of the upland slope, clumped with +trees, we reached the gabled cottage, with its neglected little +farm-yard. A rheumatic old woman was the only attendant; and, +having turned her ear in an attitude of attention, which induced +us in gradually exalted keys to enquire how Meg was, she informed +us in very loud tones that she had long lost her hearing +and was perfectly deaf. And added considerately—</p> + +<p>'When the man comes in, 'appen he'll tell ye what ye want.'</p> + +<p>Through the door of a small room at the further end of that +in which we were, we could see a portion of the narrow apartment +of the patient, and hear her moans and the doctor's voice.</p> + +<p>'We'll see him, Milly, when he comes out. Let us wait here.'</p> + +<p>So we stood upon the door-stone awaiting him. The sounds of +suffering had moved my compassion and interested us for the +sick girl.</p> + +<p>'Blest if here isn't Pegtop,' said Milly.</p> + +<p>And the weather-stained red coat, the swarthy forbidding face +and sooty locks of old Hawkes loomed in sight, as he stumped, +steadying himself with his stick, over the uneven pavement of +the yard. He touched his hat gruffly to me, but did not seem +half to like our being where we were, for he looked surlily, and +scratched his head under his wide-awake.</p> + +<p>'Your daughter is very ill, I'm afraid,' said I.</p> + +<p>'Ay—she'll be costin' me a handful, like her mother did,' +said Pegtop.</p> + +<p>'I hope her room is comfortable, poor thing.'</p> + +<p>'Ay, that's it; she be comfortable enough, I warrant—more +nor I. It be all Meg, and nout o' Dickon.'</p> + +<p>'When did her illness commence?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Day the mare wor shod—<i>Saturday</i>. I talked a bit wi' the workus +folk, but they won't gi'e nout—dang 'em—an' how be <i>I</i> to do't? +It be all'ays hard bread wi' Silas, an' a deal harder now she' +ta'en them pains. I won't stan' it much longer. Gammon! If +she keeps on that way I'll just cut. See how the workus fellahs +'ill like <i>that</i>!'</p> + +<p>'The Doctor gives his services for nothing,' I said.</p> + +<p>'An' <i>does</i> nothin', bless him! ha, ha. No more nor that old +deaf gammon there that costs me three tizzies a week, and haint + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page295" id="page295"></a>[pg 287]</span> + +worth a h'porth—no more nor Meg there, that's making all she +can o' them pains. They be all a foolin' o' me, an' thinks I don't +know 't. Hey? <i>we</i>'ll see.'</p> + +<p>All this time he was cutting a bit of tobacco into shreds on +the window-stone.</p> + +<p>'A workin' man be same as a hoss; if he baint cared, he can't +work—'tisn't in him:' and with these words, having by this time +stuffed his pipe with tobacco, he poked the deaf lady, who was +pattering about with her back toward him, rather viciously with +the point of his stick, and signed for a light.</p> + +<p>'It baint in him, you can't get it out o' 'im, no more nor ye'll +draw smoke out o' this,' and he raised his pipe an inch or two, +with his thumb on the bowl, 'without backy and fire. 'Tisn't in +it.'</p> + +<p>'Maybe I can be of some use?' I said, thinking.</p> + +<p>'Maybe,' he rejoined.</p> + +<p>By this time he received from the old deaf abigail a flaming +roll of brown paper, and, touching his hat to me, he withdrew, +lighting his pipe and sending up little white puffs, like the salute +of a departing ship.</p> + +<p>So he did not care to hear how his daughter was, and had +only come here to light his pipe!</p> + +<p>Just then the Doctor emerged.</p> + +<p>'We have been waiting to hear how your poor patient is to-day?' +I said.</p> + +<p>'Very ill, indeed, and utterly neglected, I fear. If she were +equal to it—but she's not—I think she ought to be removed to +the hospital immediately.'</p> + +<p>'That poor old woman is quite deaf, and the man is so surly +and selfish! Could you recommend a nurse who would stay here +till she's better? I will pay her with pleasure, and anything you +think might be good for the poor girl.'</p> + +<p>So this was settled on the spot. Doctor Jolks was kind, like +most men of his calling, and undertook to send the nurse from +Feltram with a few comforts for the patient; and he called +Dickon to the yard-gate, and I suppose told him of the arrangement; +and Milly and I went to the poor girl's door and asked, +'May we come in?'</p> + +<p>There was no answer. So, with the conventional construction +of silence, we entered. Her looks showed how ill she was. We + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page296" id="page296"></a>[pg 288]</span> + +adjusted her bed-clothes, and darkened the room, and did what +we could for her—noting, beside, what her comfort chiefly required. +She did not answer any questions. She did not thank us. +I should almost have fancied that she had not perceived our +presence, had I not observed her dark, sunken eyes once or +twice turned up towards my face, with a dismal look of wonder +and enquiry.</p> + +<p>The girl was very ill, and we went every day to see her. +Sometimes she would answer our questions—sometimes not. +Thoughtful, observant, surly, she seemed; and as people like to +be thanked, I sometimes wonder that we continued to throw our +bread upon these ungrateful waters. Milly was specially impatient +under this treatment, and protested against it, and +finally refused to accompany me into poor Beauty's bed-room.</p> + +<p>'I think, my good Meg,' said I one day, as I stood by her bed—she +was now recovering with the sure reascent of youth—'that +you ought to thank Miss Milly.'</p> + +<p>'I'll <i>not</i> thank her,' said Beauty, doggedly.</p> + +<p>'Very well, Meg; I only thought I'd ask you, for I think you +ought.'</p> + +<p>As I spoke, she very gently took just the tip of my finger, +which hung close to her coverlet, in her fingers, and drew it +beneath, and before I was aware, burying her head in the +clothes, she suddenly clasped my hand in both hers to her lips, +and kissed it passionately, again and again, sobbing. I felt her +tears.</p> + +<p>I tried to withdraw my hand, but she held it with an angry +pull, continuing to weep and kiss it.</p> + +<p>'Do you wish to say anything, my poor Meg?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Nout, Miss,' she sobbed gently; and she continued to kiss +my hand and weep. But suddenly she said, 'I won't thank Milly, +for it's a' <i>you</i>; it baint her, she hadn't the thought—no, no, it's +a' you, Miss. I cried hearty in the dark last night, thinkin' o' +the apples, and the way I knocked them awa' wi' a pur o' my +foot, the day father rapped me ower the head wi' his stick; it +was kind o' you and very bad o' me. I wish you'd beat me, Miss; +ye're better to me than father or mother—better to me than a'; +an' I wish I could die for you, Miss, for I'm not fit to look at +you.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page297" id="page297"></a>[pg 289]</span> + +<p>I was surprised. I began to cry. I could have hugged poor +Meg.</p> + +<p>I did not know her history. I have never learned it since. She +used to talk with the most utter self-abasement before me. It +was no religious feeling—it was a kind of expression of her love +and worship of me—all the more strange that she was naturally +very proud. There was nothing she would not have borne from +me except the slightest suspicion of her entire devotion, or +that she could in the most trifling way wrong or deceive me.</p> + +<p>I am not young now. I have had my sorrows, and with them +all that wealth, virtually unlimited, can command; and through +the retrospect a few bright and pure lights quiver along my +life's dark stream—dark, but for them; and these are shed, not +by the splendour of a splendid fortune, but by two or three of +the simplest and kindest remembrances, such as the poorest and +homeliest life may count up, and beside which, in the quiet +hours of memory, all artificial triumphs pale, and disappear, +for they are never quenched by time or distance, being founded +on the affections, and so far heavenly.</p> + +<a name="chap45"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLV</h3> + +<h2><i>A CHAPTER-FULL OF LOVERS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>We had about this time a pleasant and quite unexpected visit +from Lord Ilbury. He had come to pay his respects, understanding +that my uncle Silas was sufficiently recovered to see visitors. +'And I think I'll run up-stairs first, and see him, if he admits +me, and then I have ever so long a message from my sister, +Mary, for you and Miss Millicent; but I had better dispose of +my business first—don't you think so?—and I shall return in a +few minutes.'</p> + +<p>And as he spoke our tremulous old butler returned to say +that Uncle Silas would be happy to see him. So he departed; + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page298" id="page298"></a>[pg 290]</span> + +and you can't think how pleasant our homely sitting-room +looked with his coat and stick in it—guarantees of his return.</p> + +<p>'Do you think, Milly, he is going to speak about the timber, +you know, that Cousin Knollys spoke of? I do hope not.'</p> + +<p>'So do I,' said Milly. 'I wish he'd stayed a bit longer with us +first, for if he does, father will sure to turn him out of doors, +and we'll see no more of him.'</p> + +<p>'Exactly, my dear Milly; and he's so pleasant and good-natured.'</p> + +<p>'And he likes you awful well, he does.'</p> + +<p>'I'm sure he likes us both equally, Milly; he talked a great +deal to you at Elverston, and used to ask you so often to sing +those two pretty Lancashire ballads,' I said; 'but you know +when you were at your controversies and religious exercises in +the window, with that pillar of the church, the Rev. Spriggs +Biddlepen—'</p> + +<p>'Get awa' wi' your nonsense, Maud; how could I help answering +when he dodged me up and down my Testament and catechism?—an +I 'most hate him, I tell you, and Cousin Knollys, +you're such fools, I do. And whatever you say, the lord likes you +uncommon, and well you know it, ye hussy.'</p> + +<p>'I know no such thing; and you don't think it, <i>you</i> hussy, +and I really don't care who likes me or who doesn't, except +my relations; and I make the lord a present to you, if you'll +have him.'</p> + +<p>In this strain were we talking when he re-entered the room, a +little sooner than we had expected to see him.</p> + +<p>Milly, who, you are to recollect, was only in process of reformation, +and still retained something of the Derbyshire dairymaid, +gave me a little clandestine pinch on the arm just as he +made his appearance.</p> + +<p>'I just refused a present from her,' said odious Milly, in +answer to his enquiring look, 'because I knew she could not +spare it.'</p> + +<p>The effect of all this was that I blushed one of my overpowering +blushes. People told me they became me very much; I +hope so, for the misfortune was frequent; and I think nature +owed me that compensation.</p> + +<p>'It places you both in a most becoming light,' said Lord + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page299" id="page299"></a>[pg 291]</span> + +Ilbury, quite innocently. 'I really don't know which most to +admire—the generosity of the offer or of the refusal.'</p> + +<p>'Well, it <i>was</i> kind, if you but knew. I'm 'most tempted to +tell him,' said Milly.</p> + +<p>I checked her with a really angry look, and said, 'Perhaps you +have not observed it; but I really think, for a sensible person, +my cousin Milly here talks more nonsense than any twenty +other girls.'</p> + +<p>'A twenty-girl power! That's an immense compliment. I've +the greatest respect for nonsense, I owe it so much; and I +really think if nonsense were banished, the earth would grow +insupportable.'</p> + +<p>'Thank you, Lord Ilbury,' said Milly, who had grown quite +easy in his company during our long visit at Elverston; 'and I +tell you, Miss Maud, if you grow saucy, I'll accept your present, +and what will you say then?'</p> + +<p>'I really don't know; but just now I want to ask Lord Ilbury +how he thinks my uncle looks; neither I nor Milly have seen +him since his illness.'</p> + +<p>'Very much weaker, I think; but he may be gaining strength. +Still, as my business was not quite pleasant, I thought it better +to postpone it, and if you think it would be right, I'll write +to Doctor Bryerly to ask him to postpone the discussion for a +little time.'</p> + +<p>I at once assented, and thanked him; indeed, if I had had +my way, the subject should never have been mentioned, I felt +so hardhearted and rapacious; but Lord Ilbury explained that +the trustees were constrained by the provisions of the will, and +that I really had no power to release them; and I hoped that +Uncle Silas also understood all this.</p> + +<p>'And now,' said he, 'we've returned to Grange, my sister and +I, and it is nearer than Elverston, so that we are really neighbours; +and Mary wants Lady Knollys to fix a time she owes us +a visit, you know—and you really must come at the same time; +it will be so very pleasant, the same party exactly meeting in a +new scene; and we have not half explored our neighbourhood; +and I've got down all those Spanish engravings I told you of, +and the Venetian missals, and all the rest. I think I remember +very accurately the things you were most interested by, and +they're all there; and really you must promise, you and Miss + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page300" id="page300"></a>[pg 292]</span> + +Millicent Ruthyn. And I forgot to mention—you know you +complained that you were ill supplied with books, so Mary +thought you would allow her to share her supply—they are the +new books, you know—and when you have read yours, you and +she can exchange.'</p> + +<p>What girl was ever quite frank about her likings? I don't +think I was more of a cheat than others; but I never could +tell of myself. It is quite true that this duplicity and reserve +seldom deceives. Our hypocrisies are forced upon some of our +sex by the acuteness and vigilance of all in this field of enquiry; +but if we are sly, we are also lynx-eyed, capital detectives, most +ingenious in fitting together the bits and dovetails of a cumulative +case; and in those affairs of love and liking, have a terrible +exploratory instinct, and so, for the most part, when +detected we are found out not only to be in love, but to be +rogues moreover.</p> + +<p>Lady Mary was very kind; but had Lady Mary of her own +mere motion taken all this trouble? Was there no more energetic +influence at the bottom of that welcome chest of books, +which arrived only half an hour later? The circulating library +of those days was not the epidemic and ubiquitous influence +to which it has grown; and there were many places where it +could not find you out.</p> + +<p>Altogether that evening Bartram had acquired a peculiar +beauty—a bright and mellow glow, in which even its gate-posts +and wheelbarrow were interesting, and next day came a little +cloud—Dudley appeared.</p> + +<p>'You may be sure he wants money,' said Milly. 'He and +father had words this morning.'</p> + +<p>He took a chair at our luncheon, found fault with everything +in his own laconic dialect, ate a good deal notwithstanding, and +was sulky, and with Milly snappish. To me, on the contrary, +when Milly went into the hall, he was mild and whimpering, +and disposed to be confidential.</p> + +<p>'There's the Governor says he hasn't a bob! Danged if I +know how an old fellah in his bed-room muddles away money +at that rate. I don't suppose he thinks I can git along without +tin, and he knows them trustees won't gi'e me a tizzy till they +get what they calls an opinion—dang 'em! Bryerly says he +doubts it must all go under settlement. They'll settle me nicely + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page301" id="page301"></a>[pg 293]</span> + +if they do; and Governor knows all about it, and won't gi'e me +a danged brass farthin', an' me wi' bills to pay, an' lawyers—dang +'em—writing letters. He knows summat o' that hisself, +does Governor; and he might ha' consideration a bit for his +own flesh and blood, <i>I</i> say. But he never does nout for none but +hisself. I'll sell his books and his jewels next fit he takes—that's +how I'll fit him.'</p> + +<p>This amiable young man, glowering, with his elbows on the +table and his fingers in his great whiskers, followed his homily, +where clergymen append the blessing, with a muttered variety of +very different matter.</p> + +<p>'Now, Maud,' said he, pathetically, leaning back suddenly +in his chair, with all his conscious beauty and misfortunes in +his face, 'is not it hard lines?'</p> + +<p>I thought the appeal was going to shape itself into an application +for money; but it did not.</p> + +<p>'I never know'd a reel beauty—first-chop, of course, I mean—that +wasn't kind along of it, and I'm a fellah as can't git along +without sympathy—that's why I say it—an' isn't it hard lines? +Now, <i>say</i> it's hard lines—<i>haint</i> it, Maud?'</p> + +<p>I did not know exactly what hard lines meant, but I said—</p> + +<p>'I suppose it is very disagreeable.'</p> + +<p>And with this concession, not caring to hear any more in the +same vein, I rose, intending to take my departure.</p> + +<p>'No, that's jest it. I knew ye'd say it, Maud. Ye're a kind +lass—ye be—'tis in yer pretty face. I like ye awful, I do—there's +not a handsomer lass in Liverpool nor Lunnon itself—<i>no</i> where.'</p> + +<p>He had seized my hand, and trying to place his arm about my +waist, essayed that salute which I had so narrowly escaped on +my first introduction.</p> + +<p>'<i>Don't</i>, sir,' I exclaimed in high indignation, escaping at the +same moment from his grasp.</p> + +<p>'No offence, lass; no harm, Maud; you must not be so shy—we're +cousins, you know—an' I wouldn't hurt ye, Maud, no more +nor I'd knock my head off. I wouldn't.'</p> + +<p>I did not wait to hear the rest of his tender protestations, +but, without showing how nervous I was, I glided out of the +room quietly, making an orderly retreat, the more meritorious +as I heard him call after me persuasively—'Come + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page302" id="page302"></a>[pg 294]</span> + +back, Maud. What are ye afeard on, lass? Come back, +I say—do now; there's a good wench.'</p> + +<p>As Milly and I were taking our walk that day, in the direction +of the Windmill Wood, to which, in consequence perhaps +of some secret order, we had now free access, we saw Beauty, +for the first time since her illness, in the little yard, throwing +grain to the poultry.</p> + +<p>'How do you find yourself to-day, Meg? I am <i>very</i> glad to +see you able to be about again; but I hope it is not too soon.'</p> + +<p>We were standing at the barred gate of the little enclosure, +and quite close to Meg, who, however, did not choose to raise +her head, but, continuing to shower her grain and potato-skins +among her hens and chickens, said in a low tone—</p> + +<p>'Father baint in sight? Look jist round a bit and say if ye +see him.'</p> + +<p>But Dickon's dusky red costume was nowhere visible.</p> + +<p>So Meg looked up, pale and thin, and with her old grave, +observant eyes, and she said quietly—</p> + +<p>''Tisn't that I'm not glad to see ye; but if father was to spy +me talking friendly wi' ye, now that I'm hearty, and you havin' +no more call to me, he'd be all'ays a watching and thinkin' I +was tellin' o' tales, and 'appen he'd want me to worrit ye for +money, Miss Maud; an' 'tisn't here he'd spend it, but in the +Feltram pottusses, he would, and we want for nothin' that's good +for us. But that's how 'twould be, an' he'd all'ays be a jawing +and a lickin' of I; so don't mind me, Miss Maud, and 'appen I +might do ye a good turn some day.'</p> + +<p>A few days after this little interview with Meg, as Milly and +I were walking briskly—for it was a clear frosty day—along the +pleasant slopes of the sheep-walk, we were overtaken by Dudley +Ruthyn. It was not a pleasant surprise. There was this mitigation, +however: we were on foot, and he driving in a dog-cart +along the track leading to the moor, with his dogs and gun. +He brought his horse for a moment to a walk, and with a careless +nod to me, removing his short pipe from his mouth, he +said—</p> + +<p>'Governor's callin' for ye, Milly; and he told me to send you +slick home to him if I saw you, and I think he'll gi'e ye some +money; but ye better take him while he's in the humour, lass, +or mayhap ye'll go long without.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page303" id="page303"></a>[pg 295]</span> + +<p>And with those words, apparently intent on his game, he +nodded again, and, pipe in mouth, drove at a quick trot over +the slope of the hill, and disappeared.</p> + +<p>So I agreed to await Milly's return while she ran home, and +rejoined me where I was. Away she ran, in high spirits, and I +wandered listlessly about in search of some convenient spot to +sit down upon, for I was a little tired.</p> + +<p>She had not been gone five minutes, when I heard a step +approaching, and looking round, saw the dog-cart close by, +the horse browsing on the short grass, and Dudley Ruthyn +within a few paces of me.</p> + +<p>'Ye see, Maud, I've bin thinkin' why you're so vexed wi' me, +an' I thought I'd jest come back an' ask ye what I may a' done +to anger ye so; there's no sin in that, I think—is there?'</p> + +<p>'I'm not angry. I did not say so. I hope that's enough,' I +said, startled; and, notwithstanding my speech, <i>very</i> angry, for +I felt instinctively that Milly's despatch homeward was a mere +trick, and I the dupe of this coarse stratagem.</p> + +<p>'Well then, if ye baint angry, so much the better, Maud. I +only want to know why you're afeard o' me. I never struck a +man foul, much less hurt a girl, in my days; besides, Maud, +I likes ye too well to hurt ye. Dang it, lass, you're my cousin, ye +know, and cousins is all'ays together and lovin' like, an' none +says again' it.'</p> + +<p>'I've nothing to explain—there <i>is</i> nothing to explain. I've +been quite friendly,' I said, hurriedly.</p> + +<p>'<i>Friendly!</i> Well, if there baint a cram! How can ye think +it friendly, Maud, when ye won't a'most shake hands wi' me? +It's enough to make a fellah sware, or cry a'most. Why d'ye like +aggravatin' a poor devil? Now baint ye an ill-natured little +puss, Maud, an' I likin' ye so well? You're the prettiest lass in +Derbyshire; there's nothin' I wouldn't do for ye.'</p> + +<p>And he backed his declaration with an oath.</p> + +<p>'Be so good, then, as to re-enter your dog-cart and drive +away,' I replied, very much incensed.</p> + +<p>'Now, there it is again! Ye can't speak me civil. Another +fellah'd fly out, an' maybe kiss ye for spite; but I baint that +sort, I'm all for coaxin' and kindness, an' ye won't let me. What +<i>be</i> you drivin' at, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'I think I've said very plainly, sir, that I wish to be alone. + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page304" id="page304"></a>[pg 296]</span> + +You've <i>nothing</i> to say, except utter nonsense, and I've heard +quite enough. Once for all, I beg, sir, that you will be so good +as to leave me.'</p> + +<p>'Well, now, look here, Maud; I'll do anything you like—burn +me if I don't—if you'll only jest be kind to me, like cousins +should. What did I ever do to vex you? If you think I like +any lass better than you—some fellah at Elverston's bin talkin', +maybe—it's nout but lies an' nonsense. Not but there's lots o' +wenches likes me well enough, though I be a plain lad, and +speaks my mind straight out.'</p> + +<p>'I can't see that you are so frank, sir, as you describe; you +have just played a shabby trick to bring about this absurd and +most disagreeable interview.'</p> + +<p>'And supposin' I did send that fool, Milly, out o' the way, to +talk a bit wi' you here, where's the harm? Dang it, lass, ye +mustn't be too hard. Didn't I say I'd do whatever ye wished?'</p> + +<p>'And you <i>won't</i>,' said I.</p> + +<p>'Ye mean to get along out o' this? Well, now, I <i>will</i>. There! +No use, of course, askin' you to kiss and be friends, before I go, +as cousins should. Well, don't be riled, lass, I'm not askin' it; +only mind, I do like you awful, and 'appen I'll find ye in better +humour another time. Good-bye, Maud; I'll make ye like me at +last.'</p> + +<p>And with these words, to my comfort, he addressed himself +to his horse and pipe, and was soon honestly on his way to the +moor.</p> + +<a name="chap46"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLVI</h3> + +<h2><i>THE RIVALS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>All the time that Dudley chose to persecute me with his odious +society, I continued to walk at a brisk pace toward home, so +that I had nearly reached the house when Milly met me, with +a note which had arrived for me by the post, in her hand.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page305" id="page305"></a>[pg 297]</span> + +<p>'Here, Milly, are more verses. He is a very persevering poet, +whoever he is.' So I broke the seal; but this time it was prose. +And the first words were 'Captain Oakley!'</p> + +<p>I confess to an odd sensation as these remarkable words met +my eye. It might possibly be a proposal. I did not wait to speculate, +however, but read these sentences traced in the identical +handwriting which had copied the lines with which I had been +twice favoured.</p> + +<p>'Captain Oakley presents his compliments to Miss Ruthyn, +and trusts she will excuse his venturing to ask whether, during +his short stay in Feltram, he might be permitted to pay his +respects at Bartram-Haugh. He has been making a short visit +to his aunt, and could not find himself so near without at least +attempting to renew an acquaintance which he has never ceased +to cherish in memory. If Miss Ruthyn would be so very good as +to favour him with ever so short a reply to the question he ventures +most respectfully to ask, her decision would reach him at +the Hall Hotel, Feltram.'</p> + +<p>'Well, he's a roundabout fellah, anyhow. Couldn't he come +up and see you if he wanted to? They poeters, they do love +writing long yarns—don't they?' And with this reflection, Milly +took the note and read it through again.</p> + +<p>'It's jolly polite anyhow, isn't it Maud?' said Milly, who had +conned it over, and accepted it as a model composition.</p> + +<p>I must have been, I think, naturally a rather shrewd girl; and +considering how very little I had seen of the world—nothing in +fact—I often wonder now at the sage conclusions at which I +arrived.</p> + +<p>Were I to answer this handsome and cunning fool according +to his folly, in what position should I find myself? No doubt +my reply would induce a rejoinder, and that compel another +note from me, and that invite yet another from him; and however +his might improve in warmth, they were sure not to abate. +Was it his impertinent plan, with this show of respect and +ceremony, to drag me into a clandestine correspondence? Inexperienced +girl as I was, I fired at the idea of becoming his +dupe, and fancying, perhaps, that there was more in merely answering +his note than it would have amounted to, I said—</p> + +<p>'That kind of thing may answer very well with button-makers, +but ladies don't like it. What would your papa think + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page306" id="page306"></a>[pg 298]</span> + +of it if he found that I had been writing to him, and seeing +him without his permission? If he wanted to see me he could +have'—(I really did not know exactly what he could have +done)—'he could have timed his visit to Lady Knollys differently; +at all events, he has no right to place me in an embarrassing +situation, and I am certain Cousin Knollys would say +so; and I think his note both shabby and impertinent.'</p> + +<p>Decision was not with me an intellectual process. When quite +cool I was the most undecided of mortals, but once my feelings +were excited I was prompt and bold.</p> + +<p>'I'll give the note to Uncle Silas,' I said, quickening my pace +toward home; 'he'll know what to do.'</p> + +<p>But Milly, who, I fancy, had no objection to the little romance +which the young officer proposed, told me that she could +not see her father, that he was ill, and not speaking to anyone.</p> + +<p>'And arn't ye making a plaguy row about nothin'? I lay a +guinea if ye had never set eyes on Lord Ilbury you'd a told him +to come, and see ye, an' welcome.'</p> + +<p>'Don't talk like a fool, Milly. You never knew me do anything +deceitful. Lord Ilbury has no more to do with it, you +know very well, than the man in the moon.'</p> + +<p>I was altogether very indignant. I did not speak another word +to Milly. The proportions of the house are so great, that it is a +much longer walk than you would suppose from the hall-door +to Uncle Silas's room. But I did not cool all that way; and it +was not till I had just reached the lobby, and saw the sour, +jealous face, and high caul of old Wyat, and felt the influence +of that neighbourhood, that I paused to reconsider. I fancied +there was a cool consciousness of success behind all the deferential +phraseology of Captain Oakley, which nettled me extremely. +No; there could be no doubt. I tapped softly at the door.</p> + +<p>'What is it <i>now</i>, Miss?' snarled the querulous old woman, +with her shrivelled fingers on the door-handle.</p> + +<p>'Can I see my uncle for a moment?'</p> + +<p>'He's tired, and not a word from him all day long.'</p> + +<p>'Not ill, though?'</p> + +<p>'Awful bad in the night,' said the old crone, with a sudden +savage glare in my face, as if <i>I</i> had brought it about.</p> + +<p>'Oh! I'm very sorry. I had not heard a word of it.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page307" id="page307"></a>[pg 299]</span> + +<p>'No one does but old Wyat. There's Milly there never asks +neither—his own child!'</p> + +<p>'Weakness, or what?'</p> + +<p>'One o' them fits. He'll slide awa' in one o' them some day, +and no one but old Wyat to know nor ask word about it; that's +how 'twill be.'</p> + +<p>'Will you please hand him this note, if he is well enough +to look at it, and say I am at the door?'</p> + +<p>She took it with a peevish nod and a grunt, closing the door +in my face, and in a few minutes returned—</p> + +<p>'Come in wi' ye,' said Dame Wyat, and I appeared.</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas, who, after his nightly horror or vision, lay extended +on a sofa, with his faded yellow silk dressing-gown +about him, his long white hair hanging toward the ground, +and that wild and feeble smile lighting his face—a glimmer I +feared to look upon—his long thin arms lay by his sides, with +hands and fingers that stirred not, except when now and then, +with a feeble motion, he wet his temples and forehead with eau +de Cologne from a glass saucer placed beside him.</p> + +<p>'Excellent girl! dutiful ward and niece!' murmured the +oracle; 'heaven reward you—your frank dealing is your own +safety and my peace. Sit you down, and say who is this Captain +Oakley, when you made his acquaintance, what his age, fortune, +and expectations, and who the aunt he mentions.'</p> + +<p>Upon all these points I satisfied him as fully as I was able.</p> + +<p>'Wyat—the white drops,' he called, in a thin, stern tone. +'I'll write a line presently. I can't see visitors, and, of course, +you can't receive young captains before you've come out. Farewell! +God bless you, dear.'</p> + +<p>Wyat was dropping the 'white' restorative into a wine-glass +and the room was redolent of ether. I was glad to escape. The +figures and whole <i>mise en scène</i> were unearthly.</p> + +<p>'Well, Milly,' I said, as I met her in the hall, 'your papa is +going to write to him.'</p> + +<p>I sometimes wonder whether Milly was right, and how I +should have acted a few months earlier.</p> + +<p>Next day whom should we meet in the Windmill Wood but +Captain Oakley. The spot where this interesting <i>rencontre</i> +occurred was near that ruinous bridge on my sketch of which +I had received so many compliments. It was so great a surprise + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page308" id="page308"></a>[pg 300]</span> + +that I had not time to recollect my indignation, and, having received +him very affably, I found it impossible, during our brief +interview, to recover my lost altitude.</p> + +<p>After our greetings were over, and some compliments neatly +made, he said—</p> + +<p>'I had such a curious note from Mr. Silas Ruthyn. I am sure +he thinks me a very impertinent fellow, for it was really anything +but inviting—extremely rude, in fact. But I could not +quite see that because he does not want me to invade his bed-room—an +incursion I never dreamed of—I was not to present +myself to you, who had already honoured me with your acquaintance, +with the sanction of those who were most interested +in your welfare, and who were just as well qualified as he, I +fancy, to say who were qualified for such an honour.'</p> + +<p>'My uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, you are aware, is my guardian; +and this is my cousin, his daughter.'</p> + +<p>This was an opportunity of becoming a little lofty, and I improved +it. He raised his hat and bowed to Milly.</p> + +<p>'I'm afraid I've been very rude and stupid. Mr. Ruthyn, of +course, has a perfect right to—to—in fact, I was not the least +aware that I had the honour of so near a relation's—a—a—and +what exquisite scenery you have! I think this country round +Feltram particularly fine; and this Bartram-Haugh is, I venture +to say, about the very most beautiful spot in this beautiful +region. I do assure you I am tempted beyond measure to make +Feltram and the Hall Hotel my head-quarters for at least a +week. I only regret the foliage; but your trees show wonderfully, +even in winter, so many of them have got that ivy about +them. They say it spoils trees, but it certainly beautifies them. +I have just ten days' leave unexpired; I wish I could induce +you to advise me how to apply them. What shall I do, Miss +Ruthyn?'</p> + +<p>'I am the worst person in the world to make plans, even for +myself, I find it so troublesome. What do you say? Suppose +you try Wales or Scotland, and climb up some of those fine +mountains that look so well in winter?'</p> + +<p>'I should much prefer Feltram. I so wish you would recommend +<i>it</i>. What is this pretty plant?'</p> + +<p>'We call that Maud's myrtle. She planted it, and it's very +pretty when it's full in blow,' said Milly.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page309" id="page309"></a>[pg 301]</span> + +<p>Our visit to Elverston had been of immense use to us both.</p> + +<p>'Oh! planted by <i>you?</i>' he said, very softly, with a momentary +corresponding glance. 'May I—ever so little—just a leaf?'</p> + +<p>And without waiting for permission, he held a sprig of it +next his waistcoat.</p> + +<p>'Yes, it goes very prettily with those buttons. They are <i>very</i> +pretty buttons; are not they, Milly? A present, a souvenir, I +dare say?'</p> + +<p>This was a terrible hit at the button-maker, and I thought he +looked a little oddly at me, but my countenance was so 'bewitchingly +simple' that I suppose his suspicions were allayed.</p> + +<p>Now, it was very odd of me, I must confess, to talk in this +way, and to receive all those tender allusions from a gentleman +about whom I had spoken and felt so sharply only the evening +before. But Bartram was abominably lonely. A civilised person +was a valuable waif or stray in that region of the picturesque +and the brutal; and to my lady reader especially, because +she will probably be hardest upon me, I put it—can you not +recollect any such folly in your own past life? Can you not in +as many minutes call to mind at least six similar inconsistencies +of your own practising? For my part, I really can't see the advantage +of being the weaker sex if we are always to be as strong +as our masculine neighbours.</p> + +<p>There was, indeed, no revival of the little sentiment which +I had once experienced. When these things once expire, I do +believe they are as hard to revive as our dead lap-dogs, guinea-pigs, +and parrots. It was my perfect coolness which enabled me +to chat, I flatter myself, so agreeably with the refined Captain, +who plainly thought me his captive, and was probably now and +then thinking what was to be done to utilise that little bit of +Bartram, or to beautify some other, when he should see fit to +become its master, as we rambled over these wild but beautiful +grounds.</p> + +<p>It was just about then that Milly nudged me rather vehemently, +and whispered 'Look there!'</p> + +<p>I followed with mine the direction of her eyes, and saw my +odious cousin, Dudley, in a flagrant pair of cross-barred peg-tops, +and what Milly before her reformation used to call other +'slops' of corresponding atrocity, approaching our refined little +party with great strides. I really think that Milly was very + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page310" id="page310"></a>[pg 302]</span> + +nearly ashamed of him. I certainly was. I had no apprehension, +however, of the scene which was imminent.</p> + +<p>The charming Captain mistook him probably for some rustic +servant of the place, for he continued his agreeable remarks up +to the very moment when Dudley, whose face was pale with +anger, and whose rapid advance had not served to cool him, +without recollecting to salute either Milly or me, accosted our +elegant companion as follows:—</p> + +<p>'By your leave, master, baint you summat in the wrong box +here, don't you think?'</p> + +<p>He had planted himself directly in his front, and looked unmistakably +menacing.</p> + +<p>'May I speak to him? Will you excuse me?' said the Captain +blandly.</p> + +<p>'Ow—ay, they'll excuse ye ready enough, I dessay; you're to +deal wi' me though. Baint ye in the wrong box now?'</p> + +<p>'I'm not conscious, sir, of being in a box at all,' replied the +Captain, with severe disdain. 'It strikes me you are disposed to +get up a row. Let us, if you please, get a little apart from the +ladies if that is your purpose.'</p> + +<p>'I mean to turn you out o' this the way ye came. If you make +a row, so much the wuss for you, for I'll lick ye to fits.'</p> + +<p>'Tell him not to fight,' whispered Milly; 'he'll a no chance +wi' Dudley.'</p> + +<p>I saw Dickon Hawkes grinning over the paling on which he +leaned.</p> + +<p>'Mr. Hawkes,' I said, drawing Milly with me toward that unpromising +mediator, 'pray prevent unpleasantness and go between them.'</p> + +<p>'An' git licked o' both sides? Rather not, Miss, thank ye,' +grinned Dickon, tranquilly.</p> + +<p>'Who are you, sir?' demanded our romantic acquaintance, +with military sternness.</p> + +<p>'I'll tell you who you are—you're Oakley, as stops at the Hall, +that Governor wrote, over-night, not to dare show your nose +inside the grounds. You're a half-starved cappen, come down +here to look for a wife, and——'</p> + +<p>Before Dudley could finish his sentence, Captain Oakley, than +whose face no regimentals could possibly have been more scarlet, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page311" id="page311"></a>[pg 303]</span> + +at that moment, struck with his switch at Dudley's handsome +features.</p> + +<p>I don't know how it was done—by some 'devilish cantrip +slight.' A smack was heard, and the Captain lay on his back +on the ground, with his mouth full of blood.</p> + +<p>'How do ye like the taste o' that?' roared Dickon, from his +post of observation.</p> + +<p>In an instant Captain Oakley was on his feet again, hatless, +looking quite frantic, and striking out at Dudley, who was ducking +and dipping quite coolly, and again the same horrid sound, +only this time it was double, like a quick postman's knock, and +Captain Oakley was on the grass again.</p> + +<p>'Tapped his smeller, by—!' thundered Dickon, with a roar +of laughter.</p> + +<p>'Come away, Milly—I'm growing ill,' said I.</p> + +<p>'Drop it, Dudley, I tell ye; you'll kill him,' screamed Milly.</p> + +<p>But the devoted Captain, whose nose, and mouth, and shirt-front +formed now but one great patch of blood, and who was +bleeding beside over one eye, dashed at him again.</p> + +<p>I turned away. I felt quite faint, and on the point of crying, +with mere horror.</p> + +<p>'Hammer away at his knocker,' bellowed Dickon, in a frenzy +of delight.</p> + +<p>'He'll break it now, if it ain't already,' cried Milly, alluding, +as I afterwards understood, to the Captain's Grecian nose.</p> + +<p>'Brayvo, little un!' The Captain was considerably the taller.</p> + +<p>Another smack, and, I suppose, Captain Oakley fell once +more.</p> + +<p>'Hooray! the dinner-service again, by ——,' roared Dickon. +'Stick to that. Over the same ground—subsoil, I say. He han't +enough yet.'</p> + +<p>In a perfect tremor of disgust, I was making as quick a retreat +as I could, and as I did, I heard Captain Oakley shriek +hoarsely—</p> + +<p>'You're a d—— prizefighter; I can't box you.'</p> + +<p>'I told ye I'd lick ye to fits,' hooted Dudley.</p> + +<p>'But you're the son of a gentleman, and by —— you shall +fight me <i>as</i> a gentleman.'</p> + +<p>A yell of hooting laughter from Dudley and Dickon followed +this sally.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page312" id="page312"></a>[pg 304]</span> + +<p>'Gi'e my love to the Colonel, and think o' me when ye look +in the glass—won't ye? An' so you're goin' arter all; well, follow +what's left o' yer nose. Ye forgot some o' yer ivories, didn't ye, +on th' grass?'</p> + +<p>These and many similar jibes followed the mangled Captain +in his retreat.</p> + +<a name="chap47"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLVII</h3> + +<h2><i>DOCTOR BRYERLY REAPPEARS</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>No one who has not experienced it can imagine the nervous +disgust and horror which such a spectacle as we had been forced +in part to witness leaves upon the mind of a young person of +my peculiar temperament.</p> + +<p>It affected ever after my involuntary estimate of the principal +actors in it. An exhibition of such thorough inferiority, accompanied +by such a shock to the feminine sense of elegance, is not +forgotten by any woman. Captain Oakley had been severely +beaten by a smaller man. It was pitiable, but also undignified; +and Milly's anxieties about his teeth and nose, though in a +certain sense horrible, had also a painful suspicion of the absurd.</p> + +<p>People say, on the other hand, that superior prowess, even +in such barbarous contests, inspires in our sex an interest akin +to admiration. I can positively say in my case it was quite the +reverse. Dudley Ruthyn stood lower than ever in my estimation; +for though I feared him more, it was by reason of these brutal +and cold-blooded associations.</p> + +<p>After this I lived in constant apprehension of being summoned +to my uncle's room, and being called on for an explanation +of my meeting with Captain Oakley, which, notwithstanding +my perfect innocence, looked suspicious, but no such inquisition +resulted. Perhaps he did not suspect me; or, perhaps, +he thought, not in his haste, all women are liars, and did not + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page313" id="page313"></a>[pg 305]</span> + +care to hear what I might say. I rather lean to the latter interpretation.</p> + +<p>The exchequer just now, I suppose, by some means, was +replenished, for next morning Dudley set off upon one of his +fashionable excursions, as poor Milly thought them, to Wolverhampton. +And the same day Dr. Bryerly arrived.</p> + +<p>Milly and I, from my room window, saw him step from his +vehicle to the court-yard.</p> + +<p>A lean man, with sandy hair and whiskers, was in the chaise +with him. Dr. Bryerly descended in the unchangeable black suit +that always looked new and never fitted him.</p> + +<p>The Doctor looked careworn, and older, I thought, by several +years, than when I last saw him. He was not shown up to +my uncle's room; on the contrary, Milly, who was more actively +curious than I, ascertained that our tremulous butler informed +him that my uncle was not sufficiently well for an interview. +Whereupon Dr. Bryerly had pencilled a note, the reply to which +was a message from Uncle Silas, saying that he would be happy +to see him in five minutes.</p> + +<p>As Milly and I were conjecturing what it might mean, and +before the five minutes had expired, Mary Quince entered.</p> + +<p>'Wyat bid me tell you, Miss, your uncle wants you <i>this minute</i>.'</p> + +<p>When I entered his room, Uncle Silas was seated at the table, +with his desk before him. He looked up. Could anything be +more dignified, suffering, and venerable?</p> + +<p>'I sent for you, dear,' he said very gently, extending his thin, +white hand, and taking mine, which he held affectionately +while he spoke, 'because I desire to have no secrets, and wish +you thoroughly to know all that concerns your own interests +while subject to my guardianship; and I am happy to think, +my beloved niece, that you requite my candour. Oh, here is the +gentleman. Sit down, dear.'</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly was advancing, as it seemed, to shake hands +with Uncle Silas, who, however, rose with a severe and haughty +air, not the least over-acted, and made him a slow, ceremonious +bow. I wondered how the homely Doctor could confront so tranquilly +that astounding statue of hauteur.</p> + +<p>A faint and weary smile, rather sad than comtemptuous, was the only +sign he showed of feeling his repulse.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page314" id="page314"></a>[pg 306]</span> + +<p>'How do <i>you</i> do, Miss?' he said, extending his hand, and +greeting me after his ungallant fashion, as if it were an afterthought.</p> + +<p>'I think I may as well take a chair, sir,' said Doctor Bryerly, +sitting down serenely, near the table, and crossing his ungainly +legs.</p> + +<p>My uncle bowed.</p> + +<p>'You understand the nature of the business, sir. Do you wish +Miss Ruthyn to remain?' asked Doctor Bryerly.</p> + +<p>'I <i>sent</i> for her, sir,' replied my uncle, in a very gentle and +sarcastic +tone, a smile on his thin lips, and his strangely-contorted +eyebrows raised for a moment contemptuously. 'This gentleman, +my dear Maud, thinks proper to insinuate that I am robbing +you. It surprises me a little, and, no doubt, you—I've +nothing to conceal, and wished you to be present while he +favours me more particularly with his views. I'm right, I think, +in describing it as <i>robbery</i>, sir?'</p> + +<p>'Why,' said Doctor Bryerly thoughtfully, for he was treating +the matter as one of right, and not of feeling, 'it would be, +certainly, taking that which does not belong to you, and converting +it to your own use; but, at the worst, it would more resemble +<i>thieving</i>, I think, than robbery.'</p> + +<p>I saw Uncle Silas's lip, eyelid, and thin cheek quiver and +shrink, as if with a thrill of tic-douloureux, as Doctor Bryerly +spoke this unconsciously insulting answer. My uncle had, however, +the self-command which is learned at the gaming-table. +He shrugged, with a chilly, sarcastic, little laugh, and a glance +at me.</p> + +<p>'Your note says <i>waste</i>, I think, sir?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, waste—the felling and sale of timber in the Windmill +Wood, the selling of oak bark and burning of charcoal, as I'm +informed,' said Bryerly, as sadly and quietly as a man might +relate a piece of intelligence from the newspaper.</p> + +<p>'Detectives? or private spies of your own—or, perhaps, my +servants, bribed with my poor brother's money? A very high-minded +procedure.'</p> + +<p>'Nothing of the kind, sir.'</p> + +<p>My uncle sneered.</p> + +<p>'I mean, sir, there has been no undue canvass for evidence, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page315" id="page315"></a>[pg 307]</span> + +and the question is simply one of right; and it is our duty to +see that this inexperienced young lady is not defrauded.'</p> + +<p>'By her own uncle?'</p> + +<p>'By anyone,' said Doctor Bryerly, with a natural impenetrability +that excited my admiration.</p> + +<p>'Of course you come armed with an opinion?' said my smiling uncle, +insinuatingly.</p> + +<p>'The case is before Mr. Serjeant Grinders. These bigwigs +don't return their cases sometimes so quickly as we could wish.'</p> + +<p>'Then you have <i>no</i> opinion?' smiled my uncle.</p> + +<p>'My solicitor is quite clear upon it; and it seems to me there +can be no question raised, but for form's sake.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, for form's sake you take one, and in the meantime, upon +a nice question of law, the surmises of a thick-headed attorney +and of an ingenious apoth—I beg pardon, physician—are sufficient +warrant for telling my niece and ward, in my presence, +that I am defrauding her!'</p> + +<p>My uncle leaned back in his chair, and smiled with a contemptuous +patience over Doctor Bryerly's head, as he spoke.</p> + +<p>'I don't know whether I used that expression, sir, but I am +speaking merely in a technical sense. I mean to say, that, whether +by mistake or otherwise, you are exercising a power which you +don't lawfully possess, and that the effect of that is to impoverish +the estate, and, by so much as it benefits you, to wrong this +young lady.'</p> + +<p>'I'm a technical defrauder, I see, and your manner conveys +the rest. I thank my God, sir, I am a <i>very</i> different man from +what I once was.' Uncle Silas was speaking in a low tone, and +with extraordinary deliberation. 'I remember when I should +have certainly knocked you down, sir, or <i>tried</i> it, at least, for +a great deal less.'</p> + +<p>'But seriously, sir, what <i>do</i> you propose?' asked Doctor Bryerly, +sternly and a little flushed, for I think the old man was +stirred within him; and though he did not raise his voice, his +manner was excited.</p> + +<p>'I propose to defend my rights, sir,' murmured Uncle Silas, +very grim. 'I'm not without an opinion, though you are.'</p> + +<p>'You seem to think, sir, that I have a pleasure in annoying +you; you are quite wrong. I hate annoying anyone—constitutionally—I +<i>hate</i> it; but don't you see, sir, the position I'm + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page316" id="page316"></a>[pg 308]</span> + +placed in? I wish I could please everyone, and do my duty.'</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas bowed and smiled.</p> + +<p>'I've brought with me the Scotch steward from Tolkingden, +<i>your</i> estate, Miss, and if you let us we will visit the spot and +make a note of what we observe, that is, assuming that you admit +waste, and merely question our law.'</p> + +<p>'If you please, sir, you and your Scotchman shall do <i>no such +thing</i>; and, bearing in mind that I neither deny nor admit anything, +you will please further never more to present yourself, +under any pretext whatsoever, either in this house or on the +grounds of Bartram-Haugh, during my lifetime.'</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas rose up with the same glassy smile and scowl, in +token that the interview was ended.</p> + +<p>'Good-bye, sir,' said Doctor Bryerly, with a sad and thoughtful +air, and hesitating for a moment, he said to me, 'Do you think, +Miss, you could afford me a word in the hall?'</p> + +<p>'Not a word, sir,' snarled Uncle Silas, with a white flash from +his eyes.</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>'Sit where you are, Maud.'</p> + +<p>Another pause.</p> + +<p>'If you have anything to say to my ward, sir, you will please +to say it <i>here</i>.'</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly's dark and homely face was turned on me with +an expression of unspeakable compassion.</p> + +<p>'I was going to say, that if you think of any way in which I +can be of the least service, Miss, I'm ready to act, that's all; +mind, <i>any</i> way.'</p> + +<p>He hesitated, looking at me with the same expression as if +he had something more to say; but he only repeated—</p> + +<p>'That's all, Miss.'</p> + +<p>'Won't you shake hands, Doctor Bryerly, before you go?' I +said, eagerly approaching him.</p> + +<p>Without a smile, with the same sad anxiety in his face, with +his mind, as it seemed to me, on something else, and irresolute +whether to speak it or be silent, he took my fingers in a very +cold hand, and holding it so, and slowly shaking it, his grave and +troubled glance unconsciously rested on Uncle Silas's face, while +in a sad tone and absent way he said—</p> + +<p>'Good-bye, Miss.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page317" id="page317"></a>[pg 309]</span> + +<p>From before that sad gaze my uncle averted his strange eyes +quickly, and looked, oddly, to the window.</p> + +<p>In a moment more Doctor Bryerly let my hand go with a +sigh, and with an abrupt little nod to me, he left the room; and +I heard that dismallest of sounds, the retreating footsteps of a +true friend, <i>lost</i>.</p> + +<p>'Lead us not into temptation; if we pray so, we must not +mock the eternal Majesty of Heaven by walking into temptation +of our own accord.'</p> + +<p>This oracular sentence was not uttered by my uncle until +Doctor Bryerly had been gone at least five minutes.</p> + +<p>'I've forbid him my house, Maud—first, because his perfectly +unconscious insolence tries my patience nearly beyond endurance; +and again, because I have heard unfavourable reports of +him. On the question of right which he disputes, I am perfectly +informed. I am your tenant, my dear niece; when I am gone +you will learn how <i>scrupulous</i> I have been; you will see how, +under the pressure of the most agonising pecuniary difficulties, +the terrific penalty of a misspent youth, I have been careful +never by a hair's breadth to transgress the strict line of my legal +privileges; alike, as your tenant, Maud, and as your guardian; +how, amid frightful agitations, I have kept myself, by the miraculous +strength and grace vouchsafed me—<i>pure</i>.</p> + +<p>'The world,' he resumed after a short pause, 'has no faith in +any man's conversion; it never forgets what he was, it never +believes him anything better, it is an inexorable and stupid +judge. What I was I will describe in blacker terms, and with +more heartfelt detestation, than my traducers—a reckless prodigal, +a godless profligate. Such I was; what I am, I am. If I +had no hope beyond this world, of all men most miserable; +but with that hope, a sinner saved.'</p> + +<p>Then he waxed eloquent and mystical. I think his Swedenborgian +studies had crossed his notions of religion with strange +lights. I never could follow him quite in these excursions into +the region of symbolism. I only recollect that he talked of the +deluge and the waters of Mara, and said, 'I am washed—I am +sprinkled,' and then, pausing, bathed his thin temples and forehead +with eau de Cologne; a process which was, perhaps, suggested +by his imagery of sprinkling and so forth.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page318" id="page318"></a>[pg 310]</span> + +<p>Thus refreshed, he sighed and smiled, and passed to the subject +of Doctor Bryerly.</p> + +<p>'Of Doctor Bryerly, I know that he is sly, that he loves money, +was born poor, and makes nothing by his profession. But he +possesses many thousand pounds, under my poor brother's will, +of <i>your money</i>; and he has glided with, of course a modest +"nolo episcopari," into the acting trusteeship, with all its multitudinous +opportunities, of your immense property. That is +not doing so badly for a visionary Swedenborgian. Such a man +<i>must</i> prosper. But if he expected to make money of me, he is +disappointed. Money, however, he will make of his trusteeship, +as you will see. It is a dangerous resolution. But if he will seek +the life of Dives, the worst I wish him is to find the death of +Lazarus. But whether, like Lazarus, he be borne of angels into +Abraham's bosom, or, like the rich man, only dies and is buried, +and <i>the rest</i>, neither living nor dying do I desire his company.'</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas here seemed suddenly overtaken by exhaustion. +He leaned back with a ghastly look, and his lean features glistened +with the dew of faintness. I screamed for Wyat. But he +soon recovered sufficiently to smile his odd smile, and with it +and his frown, nodded and waved me away.</p> + +<a name="chap48"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLVIII</h3> + +<h2><i>QUESTION AND ANSWER</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>My uncle, after all, was not ill that day, after the strange fashion +of his malady, be it what it might. Old Wyat repeated in her +sour laconic way that there was 'nothing to speak of amiss with +him.' But there remained with me a sense of pain and fear. +Doctor Bryerly, notwithstanding my uncle's sarcastic reflections, +remained, in my estimation, a true and wise friend. I had all my +life been accustomed to rely upon others, and here, haunted by +many unavowed and ill-defined alarms and doubts, the disappearance + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page319" id="page319"></a>[pg 311]</span> + +of an active and able friend caused my heart to sink.</p> + +<p>Still there remained my dear Cousin Monica, and my pleasant +and trusted friend, Lord Ilbury; and in less than a week arrived +an invitation from Lady Mary to the Grange, for me and Milly, +to meet Lady Knollys. It was accompanied, she told me, by a +note from Lord Ilbury to my uncle, supporting her request; +and in the afternoon I received a message to attend my uncle +in his room.</p> + +<p>'An invitation from Lady Mary Carysbroke for you and Milly +to meet Monica Knollys; have you received it?' asked my uncle, +so soon as I was seated. Answered in the affirmative, he continued—</p> + +<p>'Now, Maud Ruthyn, I expect the truth from you; I have +been frank, so shall you. Have you ever heard me spoken ill +of by Lady Knollys?'</p> + +<p>I was quite taken aback.</p> + +<p>I felt my cheeks flushing. I was returning his fierce cold gaze +with a stupid stare, and remained dumb.</p> + +<p>'Yes, Maud, you <i>have</i>.'</p> + +<p>I looked down in silence.</p> + +<p>'I <i>know</i> it; but it is right you should answer; have you or +have you not?'</p> + +<p>I had to clear my voice twice or thrice. There was a kind of +spasm in my throat.</p> + +<p>'I am trying to recollect,' I said at last.</p> + +<p>'<i>Do</i> recollect,' he replied imperiously.</p> + +<p>There was a little interval of silence. I would have given the +world to be, on any conditions, anywhere else in the world.</p> + +<p>'Surely, Maud, you don't wish to deceive your guardian? +Come, the question is a plain one, and I know the truth already. +I ask you again—have you ever heard me spoken ill of by Lady +Knollys?'</p> + +<p>'Lady Knollys,' I said, half articulately, 'speaks very freely, +and often half in jest; but,' I continued, observing something +menacing in his face, 'I have heard her express disapprobation +of some things you have done.'</p> + +<p>'Come, Maud,' he continued, in a stern, though still a low +key, 'did she not insinuate that charge—then, I suppose, in a +state of incubation, the other day presented here full-fledged, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page320" id="page320"></a>[pg 312]</span> + +with beak and claws, by that scheming apothecary—the statement +that I was defrauding you by cutting down timber upon +the grounds?'</p> + +<p>'She certainly did mention the circumstance; but she also +argued that it might have been through ignorance of the extent +of your rights.'</p> + +<p>'Come, come, Maud, you must not prevaricate, girl. I <i>will</i> +have it. Does she not habitually speak disparagingly of me, in +your presence, and <i>to</i> you? <i>Answer</i>.'</p> + +<p>I hung my head.</p> + +<p>'Yes or no?'</p> + +<p>'Well, perhaps so—yes,' I faltered, and burst into tears.</p> + +<p>'There, don't cry; it may well shock you. Did she not, to your +knowledge, say the same things in presence of my child Millicent? +I know it, I repeat—there is no use in hesitating; and +I command you to answer.'</p> + +<p>Sobbing, I told the truth.</p> + +<p>'Now sit still, while I write my reply.'</p> + +<p>He wrote, with the scowl and smile so painful to witness, as +he looked down upon the paper, and then he placed the note +before me—</p> + +<p>'Read that, my dear.'</p> + +<p>It began—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'M<small>Y DEAR</small> L<small>ADY</small> K<small>NOLLYS</small>.—You have favoured me with a note, +adding your request to that of Lord Ilbury, that I should permit +my ward and my daughter to avail themselves of Lady +Mary's invitation. Being perfectly cognisant of the ill-feeling +you have always and unaccountably cherished toward me, and +also of the terms in which you have had the delicacy and the +conscience to speak of me before and to my child and my ward, +I can only express my amazement at the modesty of your request, +while peremptorily refusing it. And I shall conscientiously +adopt effectual measures to prevent your ever again having an +opportunity of endeavouring to destroy my influence and authority +over my ward and my child, by direct or insinuated +slander.</p> + +<p class="closer">'Your defamed and injured kinsman,</p> + +<p class="signature">S<small>ILAS</small> R<small>UTHYN</small>.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page321" id="page321"></a>[pg 313]</span> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I was stunned; yet what could I plead against the blow that +was to isolate me? I wept aloud, with my hands clasped, looking +on the marble face of the old man.</p> + +<p>Without seeming to hear, he folded and sealed his note, and +then proceeded to answer Lord Ilbury.</p> + +<p>When that note was written, he placed it likewise before me, +and I read it also through. It simply referred him to Lady +Knollys 'for an explanation of the unhappy circumstances +which compelled him to decline an invitation which it would +have made his niece and his daughter so happy to accept.'</p> + +<p>'You see, my dear Maud, how frank I am with you,' he said, +waving the open note, which I had just read, slightly before he +folded it. 'I think I may ask you to reciprocate my candour.'</p> + +<p>Dismissed from this interview, I ran to Milly, who burst into +tears from sheer disappointment, so we wept and wailed together. +But in my grief I think there was more reason.</p> + +<p>I sat down to the dismal task of writing to my dear Lady +Knollys. I implored her to make her peace with my uncle. I +told her how frank he had been with me, and how he had +shown me his sad reply to her letter. I told her of the interview +to which he had himself invited me with Dr. Bryerly; how little +disturbed he was by the accusation—no sign of guilt; quite the +contrary, perfect confidence. I implored of her to think the best, +and remembering my isolation, to accomplish a reconciliation +with Uncle Silas. 'Only think,' I wrote, 'I only nineteen, and +two years of solitude before me. What a separation!' No broken +merchant ever signed the schedule of his bankruptcy with a +heavier heart than did I this letter.</p> + +<p>The griefs of youth are like the wounds of the gods—there +is an ichor which heals the scars from which it flows: and thus +Milly and I consoled ourselves, and next day enjoyed our +ramble, our talk and readings, with a wonderful resignation +to the inevitable.</p> + +<p>Milly and I stood in the relation of <i>Lord Duberly</i> to <i>Doctor +Pangloss</i>. I was to mend her 'cackleology,' and the occupation +amused us both. I think at the bottom of our submission to destiny +lurked a hope that Uncle Silas, the inexorable, would relent, +or that Cousin Monica, that siren, would win and melt +him to her purpose.</p> + +<p>Whatever comfort, however, I derived from the absence of + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page322" id="page322"></a>[pg 314]</span> + +Dudley was not to be of very long duration; for one morning, +as I was amusing myself alone, with a piece of worsted work, +thinking, and just at that moment not unpleasantly, of many +things, my cousin Dudley entered the room.</p> + +<p>'Back again, like a bad halfpenny, ye see. And how a' ye bin +ever since, lass? Purely, I warrant, be your looks. I'm jolly glad +to see ye, I am; no cattle going like ye, Maud.'</p> + +<p>'I think I must ask you to let go my hand, as I can't continue +my work,' I said, very stiffly, hoping to chill his enthusiasm a +little.</p> + +<p>'Anything to pleasure ye, Maud, 'tain't in my heart to refuse +ye nout. I a'bin to Wolverhampton, lass—jolly row there—and +run over to Leamington; a'most broke my neck, faith, wi' a +borrowed horse arter the dogs; ye would na care, Maud, if I +broke my neck, would ye? Well, 'appen, jest a little,' he good-naturedly +supplied, as I was silent.</p> + +<p>'Little over a week since I left here, by George; and to me +it's half the almanac like; can ye guess the reason, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your +return?' I asked coldly.</p> + +<p>'<i>They'll</i> keep, Maud, never mind 'em; it be you I want to see—it +be you I wor thinkin' on a' the time. I tell ye, lass, I'm +all'ays a thinkin' on ye.'</p> + +<p>'I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been +away, you say, some time. I don't think it is respectful,' I said, a +little sharply.</p> + +<p>'If ye bid me go I'd a'most go, but I could na quite; there's +nout on earth I would na do for you, Maud, excep' leaving +you.'</p> + +<p>'And that,' I said, with a petulant flush, 'is the only thing on +earth I would ask you to do.'</p> + +<p>'Blessed if you baint a blushin', Maud,' he drawled, with an +odious grin.</p> + +<p>His stupidity was proof against everything.</p> + +<p>'It is <i>too</i> bad!' I muttered, with an indignant little pat of +my foot and mimic stamp.</p> + +<p>'Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye're angry wi' me now, +cos ye think I got into mischief—ye do, Maud; ye know 't, ye +buxsom little fool, down there at Wolverhampton; and jest for + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page323" id="page323"></a>[pg 315]</span> + +that ye're ready to turn me off again the minute I come back; +'tisn't fair.'</p> + +<p>'I don't <i>understand</i> you, sir; and I <i>beg</i> that you'll leave +me.'</p> + +<p>'Now, didn't I tell ye about leavin' ye, Maud? 'tis the only +thing I can't compass for yer sake. I'm jest a child in yere hands, +I am, ye know. I can lick a big fellah to pot as limp as a rag, +by George!'—(his oaths were not really so mild)—'ye see summat +o' that t'other day. Well, don't be vexed, Maud; 'twas all +along o' you; ye know, I wor a bit jealous, 'appen; but anyhow +I can do it; and look at me here, jest a child, I say, in yer +hands.'</p> + +<p>'I wish you'd go away. Have you nothing to do, and no one +to see? Why <i>can't</i> you leave me alone, sir?'</p> + +<p>''Cos I can't, Maud, that's jest why; and I wonder, Maud, +how can you be so ill-natured, when you see me like this; how +can ye?'</p> + +<p>'I wish Milly would come,' said I peevishly, looking toward +the door.</p> + +<p>'Well, I'll tell you how it is, Maud. I may as well have it out. +I like you better than any lass that ever I saw, a deal; you're +nicer by chalks; there's none like ye—there isn't; and I wish +you'd have me. I ha'n't much tin—father's run through a deal, +he's pretty well up a tree, ye know; but though I baint so rich +as some folk, I'm a better man, 'appen; and if ye'd take a tidy +lad, that likes ye awful, and 'id die for your sake, why here he +is.'</p> + +<p>'What can you mean, sir?' I exclaimed, rising in indignant +bewilderment.</p> + +<p>'I mean, Maud, if ye'll marry me, you'll never ha' cause to +complain; I'll never let ye want for nout, nor gi'e ye a wry +word.'</p> + +<p>'Actually a proposal!' I ejaculated, like a person speaking in +a dream.</p> + +<p>I stood with my hand on the back of a chair, staring at Dudley; +and looking, I dare say, as stupefied as I felt.</p> + +<p>'There's a good lass, ye would na deny me,' said the odious +creature, with one knee on the seat of the chair behind which I +was standing, and attempting to place his arm lovingly round +my neck.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page324" id="page324"></a>[pg 316]</span> + +<p>This effectually roused me, and starting back, I stamped upon +the ground with actual fury.</p> + +<p>'What has there ever been, sir, in my conduct, words, or looks, +to warrant this unparalleled audacity? But that you are as +stupid as you are impertinent, brutal, and ugly, you must, long +ago, sir, have seen how I dislike you. How dare you, sir? Don't +presume to obstruct me; I'm going to my uncle.'</p> + +<p>I had never spoken so violently to mortal before.</p> + +<p>He in turn looked a little confounded; and I passed his extended +but motionless arm with a quick and angry step.</p> + +<p>He followed me a pace or two, however, before I reached the +door, looking horridly angry, but stopped, and only swore after +me some of those 'wry words' which I was never to have heard. +I was myself, however, too much incensed, and moving at too +rapid a pace, to catch their import; and I had knocked at my +uncle's door before I began to collect my thoughts.</p> + +<p>'Come in,' replied my uncle's voice, clear, thin, and peevish.</p> + +<p>I entered and confronted him.</p> + +<p>'Your son, sir, has insulted me.'</p> + +<p>He looked at me with a cold curiosity steadly for a few seconds, +as I stood panting before him with flaming cheeks.</p> + +<p>'Insulted you?' repeated he. 'Egad, you surprise me!'</p> + +<p>The ejaculation savoured of 'the old man,' to borrow his +scriptural phrase, more than anything I had heard from him +before.</p> + +<p>'<i>How?</i>' he continued; 'how has Dudley <i>insulted</i> you, my +dear child? Come, you're excited; sit down; take time, and tell +me all about it. I did not know that Dudley was here.'</p> + +<p>'I—he—it <i>is</i> an insult. He knew very well—he <i>must</i> know I +dislike him; and he presumed to make a proposal of marriage +to me.'</p> + +<p>'O—o—oh!' exclaimed my uncle, with a prolonged intonation +which plainly said, Is that the mighty matter?</p> + +<p>He looked at me as he leaned back with the same steady +curiosity, this time smiling, which somehow frightened me, and +his countenance looked to me wicked, like the face of a witch, +with a guilt I could not understand.</p> + +<p>'And that is the amount of your complaint. He made you a +formal proposal of marriage!'</p> + +<p>'Yes; he proposed for me.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page325" id="page325"></a>[pg 317]</span> + +<p>As I cooled, I began to feel just a very little disconcerted, and +a suspicion was troubling me that possibly an indifferent person +might think that, having no more to complain of, my language +was perhaps a little exaggerated, and my demeanour a +little too tempestuous.</p> + +<p>My uncle, I dare say, saw some symptoms of this misgiving, +for, smiling still, he said—</p> + +<p>'My dear Maud, however just, you appear to me a little +cruel; you don't seem to remember how much you are yourself +to blame; you have one faithful friend at least, whom I advise +your consulting—I mean your looking-glass. The foolish fellow +is young, quite ignorant in the world's ways. He is in love—desperately +enamoured.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<center>Aimer c'est craindre, et craindre c'est souffrir.</center> +</div> + +<p>And suffering prompts to desperate remedies. We must not be +too hard on a rough but romantic young fool, who talks according +to his folly and his pain.'</p> + +<a name="chap49"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XLIX</h3> + +<h2><i>AN APPARITION</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'But, after all,' he suddenly resumed, as if a new thought had +struck him, 'is it quite such folly, after all? It really strikes me, +dear Maud, that the subject may be worth a second thought. No, +no, you won't refuse to hear me,' he said, observing me on the +point of protesting. 'I am, of course, assuming that you are +fancy free. I am assuming, too, that you don't care twopence +about Dudley, and even that you fancy you dislike him. You +know in that pleasant play, poor Sheridan—delightful fellow!—all +our fine spirits are dead—he makes Mrs. Malaprop say there +is nothing like beginning with a little aversion. Now, though in +matrimony, of course, that is only a joke, yet in love, believe me, +it is no such thing. His own marriage with Miss Ogle, I <i>know</i>, +was a case in point. She expressed a positive horror of him at +their first acquaintance; and yet, I believe, she would, a few + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page326" id="page326"></a>[pg 318]</span> + +months later, have died rather than not have married him.'</p> + +<p>I was again about to speak, but with a smile he beckoned me +into silence.</p> + +<p>'There are two or three points you must bear in mind. One +of the happiest privileges of your fortune is that you may, +without imprudence, marry simply for love. There are few men +in England who could offer you an estate comparable with that +you already possess; or, in fact, appreciably increase the splendour +of your fortune. If, therefore, he were in all other respects +eligible, I can't see that his poverty would be an objection to +weigh for one moment. He is quite a rough diamond. He has +been, like many young men of the highest rank, too much given +up to athletic sports—to that society which constitutes the aristocracy +of the ring and the turf, and all that kind of thing. You +see, I am putting all the worst points first. But I have known so +many young men in my day, after a madcap career of a few +years among prizefighters, wrestlers, and jockeys—learning their +slang and affecting their manners—take up and cultivate the +graces and the decencies. There was poor dear Newgate, many +degrees lower in that kind of frolic, who, when he grew tired +of it, became one of the most elegant and accomplished men in +the House of Peers. Poor Newgate, he's gone, too! I could +reckon up fifty of my early friends who all began like Dudley, +and all turned out, more or less, like Newgate.'</p> + +<p>At this moment came a knock at the door, and Dudley put in +his head most inopportunely for the vision of his future graces +and accomplishments.</p> + +<p>'My good fellow,' said his father, with a sharp sort of playfulness, +'I happen to be talking about my son, and should rather +not be overheard; you will, therefore, choose another time for +your visit.'</p> + +<p>Dudley hesitated gruffly at the door, but another look from +his father dismissed him.</p> + +<p>'And now, my dear, you are to remember that Dudley has +fine qualities—the most affectionate son in his rough way that +ever father was blessed with; most admirable qualities—indomitable +courage, and a high sense of honour; and lastly, that he +has the Ruthyn blood—the purest blood, I maintain it, in England.'</p> + +<p>My uncle, as he said this, drew himself up a little, unconsciously, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page327" id="page327"></a>[pg 319]</span> + +his thin hand laid lightly over his heart with a little +patting motion, and his countenance looked so strangely dignified +and melancholy, that in admiring contemplation of it I +lost some sentences which followed next.</p> + +<p>'Therefore, dear, naturally anxious that my boy should not +be dismissed from home—as he must be, should you persevere in +rejecting his suit—I beg that you will reserve your decision to +this day fortnight, when I will with much pleasure hear what +you may have to say on the subject. But till then, observe me, +not a word.'</p> + +<p>That evening he and Dudley were closeted for a long time. I +suspect that he lectured him on the psychology of ladies; for +a bouquet was laid beside my plate every morning at breakfast, +which it must have been troublesome to get, for the conservatory +at Bartram was a desert. In a few days more an anonymous +green parrot arrived, in a gilt cage, with a little note in a clerk's +hand, addressed to 'Miss Ruthyn (of Knowl), Bartram-Haugh,' +&c. It contained only 'Directions for caring green parrot,' at +the close of which, <i>underlined</i>, the words appeared—'The bird's +name is Maud.'</p> + +<p>The bouquets I invariably left on the table-cloth, where I +found them—the bird I insisted on Milly's keeping as her property. +During the intervening fortnight Dudley never appeared, +as he used sometimes to do before, at luncheon, nor looked in +at the window as we were at breakfast. He contented himself +with one day placing himself in my way in the hall in his +shooting accoutrements, and, with a clumsy, shuffling kind of +respect, and hat in hand, he said—</p> + +<p>'I think, Miss, I must a spoke uncivil t'other day. I was so +awful put about, and didn't know no more nor a child what I +was saying; and I wanted to tell ye I'm sorry for it, and I beg +your pardon—very humble, I do.'</p> + +<p>I did not know what to say. I therefore said nothing, but +made a grave inclination, and passed on.</p> + +<p>Two or three times Milly and I saw him at a little distance in +our walks. He never attempted to join us. Once only he passed +so near that some recognition was inevitable, and he stopped +and in silence lifted his hat with an awkward respect. But although +he did not approach us, he was ostentatious with a kind +of telegraphic civility in the distance. He opened gates, he + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page328" id="page328"></a>[pg 320]</span> + +whistled his dogs to 'heel,' he drove away cattle, and then himself +withdrew. I really think he watched us occasionally to +render these services, for in this distant way we encountered +him decidedly oftener than we used to do before his flattering +proposal of marriage.</p> + +<p>You may be sure that we discussed, Milly and I, that occurrence +pretty constantly in all sorts of moods. Limited as had +been her experience of human society, she very clearly saw +<i>now</i> how far below its presentable level was her hopeful brother.</p> + +<p>The fortnight sped swiftly, as time always does when something +we dislike and shrink from awaits us at its close. I never +saw Uncle Silas during that period. It may seem odd to those +who merely read the report of our last interview, in which his +manner had been more playful and his talk more trifling than +in any other, that from it I had carried away a profounder +sense of fear and insecurity than from any other. It was with a +foreboding of evil and an awful dejection that on a very dark +day, in Milly's room, I awaited the summons which I was sure +would reach me from my punctual guardian.</p> + +<p>As I looked from the window upon the slanting rain and +leaden sky, and thought of the hated interview that awaited me, +I pressed my hand to my troubled heart, and murmured, 'O +that I had wings like a dove! then would I flee away, and be at +rest.'</p> + +<p>Just then the prattle of the parrot struck my ear. I looked +round on the wire cage, and remembered the words, 'The bird's +name is Maud.'</p> + +<p>'Poor bird!' I said. 'I dare say, Milly, it longs to get out. If +it were a native of this country, would not you like to open the +window, and then the door of that cruel cage, and let the poor +thing fly away?'</p> + +<p>'Master wants Miss Maud,' said Wyat's disagreeable tones, +at the half-open door.</p> + +<p>I followed in silence, with the pressure of a near alarm at my +heart, like a person going to an operation.</p> + +<p>When I entered the room, my heart beat so fast that I could +hardly speak. The tall form of Uncle Silas rose before me, and +I made him a faltering reverence.</p> + +<p>He darted from under his brows a wild, fierce glance at old + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page329" id="page329"></a>[pg 321]</span> + +Wyat, and pointed to the door imperiously with his skeleton +finger. The door shut, and we were alone.</p> + +<p>'A chair?' he said, pointing to a seat.</p> + +<p>'Thank you, uncle, I prefer standing,' I faltered.</p> + +<p>He also stood—his white head bowed forward, the phosphoric +glare of his strange eyes shone upon me from under his brows—his +finger-nails just rested on the table.</p> + +<p>'You saw the luggage corded and addressed, as it stands ready +for removal in the hall?' he asked.</p> + +<p>I had. Milly and I had read the cards which dangled from +the trunk-handles and gun-case. The address was—'Mr. Dudley +R. Ruthyn, Paris, <i>viâ</i> Dover.'</p> + +<p>'I am old—agitated—on the eve of a decision on which much +depends. Pray relieve my suspense. Is my son to leave Bartram +to-day in sorrow, or to remain in joy? Pray answer quickly.'</p> + +<p>I stammered I know not what. I was incoherent—wild, perhaps; +but somehow I expressed my meaning—my unalterable +decision. I thought his lips grew whiter and his eyes shone +brighter as I spoke.</p> + +<p>When I had quite made an end, he heaved a great sigh, and +turning his eyes slowly to the right and the left, like a man in +a helpless distraction, he whispered—</p> + +<p>'God's will be done.'</p> + +<p>I thought he was upon the point of fainting—a clay tint +darkened the white of his face; and, seeming to forget my +presence, he sat down, looking with a despairing scowl on his +ashy old hand, as it lay upon the table.</p> + +<p>I stood gazing at him, feeling almost as if I had murdered +the old man—he still gazing askance, with an imbecile scowl, +upon his hand.</p> + +<p>'Shall I go, sir?' I at length found courage to whisper.</p> + +<p>'<i>Go?</i>' he said, looking up suddenly; and it seemed to me as +if a stream of cold sheet-lightning had crossed and enveloped me +for a moment.</p> + +<p>'Go?—oh!—a—yes—<i>yes</i>, Maud—go. I must see poor Dudley +before his departure,' he added, as it were, in soliloquy.</p> + +<p>Trembling lest he should revoke his permission to depart, I +glided quickly and noiselessly from the room.</p> + +<p>Old Wyat was prowling outside, with a cloth in her hand, pretending +to dust the carved door-case. She frowned a stare of enquiry + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page330" id="page330"></a>[pg 322]</span> + +over her shrunken arm on me, as I passed. Milly, who +had been on the watch, ran and met me. We heard my uncle's +voice, as I shut the door, calling Dudley. He had been waiting, +probably, in the adjoining room. I hurried into my chamber, +with Milly at my side, and there my agitation found relief in +tears, as that of girlhood naturally does.</p> + +<p>A little while after we saw from the window Dudley, looking, +I thought, very pale, get into a vehicle, on the top of which his +luggage lay, and drive away from Bartram.</p> + +<p>I began to take comfort. His departure was an inexpressible +relief. His final departure! a distant journey!</p> + +<p>We had tea in Milly's room that night. Firelight and candles +are inspiring. In that red glow I always felt and feel more safe, +as well as more comfortable, than in the daylight—quite irrationally, +for we know the night is the appointed day of such +as love the darkness better than light, and evil walks thereby. +But so it is. Perhaps the very consciousness of external danger +enhances the enjoyment of the well-lighted interior, just as the +storm does that roars and hurtles over the roof.</p> + +<p>While Milly and I were talking, very cosily, a knock came to +the room-door, and, without waiting for an invitation to enter, +old Wyat came in, and glowering at us, with her brown claw +upon the door-handle, she said to Milly—</p> + +<p>'Ye must leave your funnin', Miss Milly, and take your turn +in your father's room.'</p> + +<p>'Is he ill?' I asked.</p> + +<p>She answered, addressing not me, but Milly—</p> + +<p>'A wrought two hours in a fit arter Master Dudley went. +'Twill be the death o' him, I'm thinkin', poor old fellah. I wor +sorry myself when I saw Master Dudley a going off in the moist +to-day, poor fellah. There's trouble enough in the family without +a' that; but 'twon't be a family long, I'm thinkin'. Nout but +trouble, nout but trouble, since late changes came.'</p> + +<p>Judging by the sour glance she threw on me as she said this, +I concluded that I represented those 'late changes' to which all +the sorrows of the house were referred.</p> + +<p>I felt unhappy under the ill-will even of this odious old +woman, being one of those unhappily constructed mortals who +cannot be indifferent when they reasonably ought, and always +yearn after kindness, even that of the worthless.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page331" id="page331"></a>[pg 323]</span> + +<p>'I must go. I wish you'd come wi' me, Maud, I'm so afraid all +alone,' said Milly, imploringly.</p> + +<p>'Certainly, Milly,' I answered, not liking it, you may be sure; +'you shan't sit there alone.'</p> + +<p>So together we went, old Wyat cautioning us for our lives +to make no noise.</p> + +<p>We passed through the old man's sitting-room, where that +day had occurred his brief but momentous interview with me, +and his parting with his only son, and entered the bed-room at +the farther end.</p> + +<p>A low fire burned in the grate. The room was in a sort of twilight. +A dim lamp near the foot of the bed at the farther side +was the only light burning there. Old Wyat whispered an injunction +not to speak above our breaths, nor to leave the fireside +unless the sick man called or showed signs of weariness. +These were the directions of the doctor, who had been there.</p> + +<p>So Milly and I sat ourselves down near the hearth, and old +Wyat left us to our resources. We could hear the patient +breathe; but he was quite still. In whispers we talked; but our +conversation flagged. I was, after my wont, upbraiding myself +for the suffering I had inflicted. After about half an hour's +desultory whispering, and intervals, growing longer and longer, +of silence, it was plain that Milly was falling asleep.</p> + +<p>She strove against it, and I tried hard to keep her talking; +but it would not do—sleep overcame her; and I was the only +person in that ghastly room in a state of perfect consciousness.</p> + +<p>There were associations connected with my last vigil there to +make my situation very nervous and disagreeable. Had I not +had so much to occupy my mind of a distinctly practical kind—Dudley's +audacious suit, my uncle's questionable toleration of +it, and my own conduct throughout that most disagreeable period +of my existence,—I should have felt my present situation a +great deal more.</p> + +<p>As it was, I thought of my real troubles, and something of +Cousin Knollys, and, I confess, a good deal of Lord Ilbury. +When looking towards the door, I thought I saw a human face, +about the most terrible my fancy could have called up, looking +fixedly into the room. It was only a 'three-quarter,' and not the +whole figure—the door hid that in a great measure, and I fancied +I saw, too, a portion of the fingers. The face gazed toward + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page332" id="page332"></a>[pg 324]</span> + +the bed, and in the imperfect light looked like a livid mask, +with chalky eyes.</p> + +<p>I had so often been startled by similar apparitions formed by +accidental lights and shadows disguising homely objects, that +I stooped forward, expecting, though tremulously, to see this +tremendous one in like manner dissolve itself into its harmless +elements; and now, to my unspeakable terror, I became perfectly +certain that I saw the countenance of Madame de la +Rougierre.</p> + +<p>With a cry, I started back, and shook Milly furiously from +her trance.</p> + +<p>'Look! look!' I cried. But the apparition or illusion was +gone.</p> + +<p>I clung so fast to Milly's arm, cowering behind her, that she +could not rise.</p> + +<p>'Milly! Milly! Milly! Milly!' I went on crying, like one +struck with idiotcy, and unable to say anything else.</p> + +<p>In a panic, Milly, who had seen nothing, and could conjecture +nothing of the cause of my terror, jumped up, and clinging to +one another, we huddled together into the corner of the room, +I still crying wildly, 'Milly! Milly! <i>Milly</i>!' and nothing else.</p> + +<p>'What is it—where is it—what do you see?' cried Milly, +clinging to me as I did to her.</p> + +<p>'It will come again; it will come; oh, heaven!'</p> + +<p>'What—what is it, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'The face! the face!' I cried. 'Oh, Milly! Milly! Milly!'</p> + +<p>We heard a step softly approaching the open door, and, in +a horrible <i>sauve qui peut</i>, we rushed and stumbled together +toward the light by Uncle Silas's bed. But old Wyat's voice and +figure reassured us.</p> + +<p>'Milly,' I said, so soon as, pale and very faint, I reached my +apartment, 'no power on earth shall ever tempt me to enter +that room again after dark.'</p> + +<p>'Why, Maud dear, what, in Heaven's name, did you see?' +said Milly, scarcely less terrified.</p> + +<p>'Oh, I can't; I can't; I can't, Milly. Never ask me. It is +haunted. The room is haunted <i>horribly</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Was it Charke?' whispered Milly, looking over her shoulder, +all aghast.</p> + +<p>'No, no—don't ask me; a fiend in a worse shape.' I was + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page333" id="page333"></a>[pg 325]</span> + +relieved at last by a long fit of weeping; and all night good +Mary Quince sat by me, and Milly slept by my side. Starting +and screaming, and drugged with sal-volatile, I got through that +night of supernatural terror, and saw the blessed light of heaven +again.</p> + +<p>Doctor Jolks, when he came to see my uncle in the morning, +visited me also. He pronounced me very hysterical, made minute +enquiries respecting my hours and diet, asked what I had had +for dinner yesterday. There was something a little comforting +in his cool and confident pooh-poohing of the ghost theory. The +result was, a regimen which excluded tea, and imposed chocolate +and porter, earlier hours, and I forget all beside; and he undertook +to promise that, if I would but observe his directions, I +should never see a ghost again.</p> + +<a name="chap50"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER L</h3> + +<h2><i>MILLY'S FAREWELL</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>A few days' time saw me much better. Doctor Jolks was so +contemptuously sturdy and positive on the point, that I began +to have comfortable doubts about the reality of my ghost; and +having still a horror indescribable of the illusion, if such it were, +the room in which it appeared, and everything concerning it, +I would neither speak, nor, so far as I could, think of it.</p> + +<p>So, though Bartram-Haugh was gloomy as well as beautiful, +and some of its associations awful, and the solitude that reigned +there sometimes almost terrible, yet early hours, bracing exercise, +and the fine air that predominates that region, soon restored my +nerves to a healthier tone.</p> + +<p>But it seemed to me that Bartram-Haugh was to be to me a +vale of tears; or rather, in my sad pilgrimage, that valley of +the shadow of death through which poor Christian fared alone +and in the dark.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page334" id="page334"></a>[pg 326]</span> + +<p>One day Milly ran into the parlour, pale, with wet cheeks, +and, without saying a word, threw her arms about my neck, +and burst into a paroxysm of weeping.</p> + +<p>'What is it, Milly—what's the matter, dear—what is it?' I +cried aghast, but returning her close embrace heartily.</p> + +<p>'Oh! Maud—Maud darling, he's going to send me away.'</p> + +<p>'Away, dear! <i>where</i> away? And leave me alone in this dreadful +solitude, where he knows I shall die of fear and grief without +you? Oh! no—no, it <i>must</i> be a mistake.'</p> + +<p>'I'm going to France, Maud—I'm going away. Mrs. Jolks is +going to London, day ar'ter to-morrow, and I'm to go wi' +her; and an old French lady, he says, from the school will meet +me there, and bring me the rest o' the way.'</p> + +<p>'Oh—ho—ho—ho—ho—o—o—o!' cried poor Milly, hugging +me closer still, with her head buried in my shoulder, and swaying +me about like a wrestler, in her agony.</p> + +<p>'I never wor away from home afore, except that little bit wi' +you over there at Elverston; and you wor wi' me then, Maud; +an' I love ye—better than Bartram—better than a'; an' I think +I'll die, Maud, if they take me away.'</p> + +<p>I was just as wild in my woe as poor Milly; and it was not +until we had wept together for a full hour—sometimes standing—sometimes +walking up and down the room—sometimes sitting +and getting up in turns to fall on one another's necks,—that +Milly, plucking her handkerchief from her pocket, drew a note +from it at the same time, which, as it fell upon the floor, she at +once recollected to be one from Uncle Silas to me.</p> + +<p>It was to this effect:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'I wish to apprise my dear niece and ward of my plans. Milly +proceeds to an admirable French school, as a pensionnaire, and +leaves this on Thursday next. If after three months' trial she +finds it in any way objectionable, she returns to us. If, on the +contrary, she finds it in all respects the charming residence it +has been presented to me, you, on the expiration of that period, +join her there, until the temporary complication of my affairs +shall have been so far adjusted as to enable me to receive you +once more at Bartram. Hoping for happier days, and wishing to +assure you that three months is the extreme limit of your separation + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page335" id="page335"></a>[pg 327]</span> + +from my poor Milly, I have written this, feeling alas! +unequal to seeing you at present.</p> + +<p class="note">'Bartram, Tuesday.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'P.S.—I can have no objection to your apprising Monica +Knollys of these arrangements. You will understand, of course, +not a copy of this letter, but its substance.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Over this document, scanning it as lawyers do a new Act of +Parliament, we took comfort. After all, it was limited; a separation +not to exceed three months, possibly much shorter. On the +whole, too, I pleased myself with thinking Uncle Silas's note, +though peremptory, was kind.</p> + +<p>Our paroxysms subsided into sadness; a close correspondence +was arranged. Something of the bustle and excitement of change +supervened. If it turned out to be, in truth, a 'charming residence,' +how very delightful our meeting in France, with the +interest of foreign scenery, ways, and faces, would be!</p> + +<p>So Thursday arrived—a new gush of sorrow—a new brightening +up—and, amid regrets and anticipations, we parted at the +gate at the farther end of the Windmill Wood. Then, of course, +were more good-byes, more embraces, and tearful smiles. Good +Mrs. Jolks, who met us there, was in a huge fuss; I believe it +was her first visit to the metropolis, and she was in proportion +heated and important, and terrified about the train, so we had +not many last words.</p> + +<p>I watched poor Milly, whose head was stretched from the window, +her hand waving many adieux, until the curve of the +road, and the clump of old ash-trees, thick with ivy, hid Milly, +carriage and all, from view. My eyes filled again with tears. I +turned towards Bartram. At my side stood honest Mary Quince.</p> + +<p>'Don't take on so, Miss; 'twon't be no time passing; three +months is nothing at all,' she said, smiling kindly.</p> + +<p>I smiled through my tears and kissed the good creature, and +so side by side we re-entered the gate.</p> + +<p>The lithe young man in fustian, whom I had seen talking +with Beauty on the morning of our first encounter with that +youthful Amazon, was awaiting our re-entrance with the key +in his hand. He stood half behind the open wicket. One lean +brown cheek, one shy eye, and his sharp upturned nose, I saw + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page336" id="page336"></a>[pg 328]</span> + +as we passed. He was treating me to a stealthy scrutiny, and +seemed to shun my glance, for he shut the door quickly, and +busied himself locking it, and then began stubbing up some +thistles which grew close by, with the toe of his thick shoe, his +back to us all the time.</p> + +<p>It struck me that I recognised his features, and I asked Mary +Quince.</p> + +<p>'Have you seen that young man before, Quince?'</p> + +<p>'He brings up game for your uncle, sometimes, Miss, and +lends a hand in the garden, I believe.'</p> + +<p>'Do you know his name, Mary?'</p> + +<p>'They call him Tom, I don't know what more, Miss.'</p> + +<p>'Tom,' I called; 'please, Tom, come here for a moment.'</p> + +<p>Tom turned about, and approached slowly. He was more +civil than the Bartram people usually were, for he plucked off +his shapeless cap of rabbit-skin with a clownish respect.</p> + +<p>'Tom, what is your other name,—Tom <i>what</i>, my good man?' +I asked.</p> + +<p>'Tom Brice, ma'am.'</p> + +<p>'Haven't I seen you before, Tom Brice?' I pursued, for my +curiosity was excited, and with it much graver feelings; for +there certainly <i>was</i> a resemblance in Tom's features to those of +the postilion who had looked so hard at me as I passed the carriage +in the warren at Knowl, on the evening of the outrage +which had scared that quiet place.</p> + +<p>''Appen you may have, ma'am,' he answered, quite coolly, +looking down the buttons of his gaiters.</p> + +<p>'Are you a good whip—do you drive well?'</p> + +<p>'I'll drive a plough wi' most lads hereabout,' answered Tom.</p> + +<p>'Have you ever been to Knowl, Tom?'</p> + +<p>Tom gaped very innocently.</p> + +<p>'Anan,' he said.</p> + +<p>'Here, Tom, is half-a-crown.'</p> + +<p>He took it readily enough.</p> + +<p>'That be very good,' said Tom, with a nod, having glanced +sharply at the coin.</p> + +<p>I can't say whether he applied that term to the coin, or to +his luck, or to my generous self.</p> + +<p>'Now, Tom, you'll tell me, have you ever been to Knowl?'</p> + +<p>'Maught a' bin, ma'am, but I don't mind no sich place—no.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page337" id="page337"></a>[pg 329]</span> + +<p>As Tom spoke this with great deliberation, like a man who +loves truth, putting a strain upon his memory for its sake, he +spun the silver coin two or three times into the air and caught +it, staring at it the while, with all his might.</p> + +<p>'Now, Tom, recollect yourself, and tell me the truth, and +I'll be a friend to you. Did you ride postilion to a carriage having +a lady in it, and, I think, several gentlemen, which came +to the grounds of Knowl, when the party had their luncheon +on the grass, and there was a—a quarrel with the gamekeepers? +Try, Tom, to recollect; you shall, upon my honour, have no +trouble about it, and I'll try to serve you.'</p> + +<p>Tom was silent, while with a vacant gape he watched the +spin of his half-crown twice, and then catching it with a +smack in his hand, which he thrust into his pocket, he said, +still looking in the same direction—</p> + +<p>'I never rid postilion in my days, ma'am. I know nout o' +sich a place, though 'appen I maught a' bin there; Knowl, ye +ca't. I was ne'er out o' Derbyshire but thrice to Warwick fair +wi' horses be rail, an' twice to York.'</p> + +<p>'You're certain, Tom?'</p> + +<p>'Sartin sure, ma'am.'</p> + +<p>And Tom made another loutish salute, and cut the conference +short by turning off the path and beginning to hollo +after some trespassing cattle.</p> + +<p>I had not felt anything like so nearly sure in this essay at +identification as I had in that of Dudley. Even of Dudley's +identity with the Church Scarsdale man, I had daily grown +less confident; and, indeed, had it been proposed to bring it to +the test of a wager, I do not think I should, in the language +of sporting gentlemen, have cared to 'back' my original opinion. +There was, however, a sufficient uncertainty to make me uncomfortable; +and there was another uncertainty to enhance the +unpleasant sense of ambiguity.</p> + +<p>On our way back we passed the bleaching trunks and limbs +of several ranks of barkless oaks lying side by side, some squared +by the hatchet, perhaps sold, for there were large letters and +Roman numerals traced upon them in red chalk. I sighed as I +passed them by, not because it was wrongfully done, for I really +rather leaned to the belief that Uncle Silas was well advised +in point of law. But, alas! here lay low the grand old family + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page338" id="page338"></a>[pg 330]</span> + +decorations of Bartram-Haugh, not to be replaced for centuries +to come, under whose spreading boughs the Ruthyns of three +hundred years ago had hawked and hunted!</p> + +<p>On the trunk of one of these I sat down to rest, Mary Quince +meanwhile pattering about in unmeaning explorations. While +thus listlessly seated, the girl Meg Hawkes, walked by, carrying +a basket.</p> + +<p>'Hish!' she said quickly, as she passed, without altering a +pace or raising her eyes; 'don't ye speak nor look—fayther +spies us; I'll tell ye next turn.'</p> + +<p>'Next turn'—when was that? Well, she might be returning; +and as she could not then say more than she had said, in merely +passing without a pause, I concluded to wait for a short time +and see what would come of it.</p> + +<p>After a short time I looked about me a little, and I saw +Dickon Hawkes—Pegtop, as poor Milly used to call him—with +an axe in his hand, prowling luridly among the timber.</p> + +<p>Observing that I saw him, he touched his hat sulkily, and +by-and-by passed me, muttering to himself. He plainly could +not understand what business I could have in that particular +part of the Windmill Wood, and let me see it in his countenance.</p> + +<p>His daughter did pass me again; but this time he was near, +and she was silent. Her next transit occurred as he was questioning +Mary Quince at some little distance; and as she passed +precisely in the same way, she said—</p> + +<p>'Don't you be alone wi' Master Dudley nowhere for the +world's worth.'</p> + +<p>The injunction was so startling that I was on the point of +questioning the girl. But I recollected myself, and waited in the +hope that in her future transits she might be more explicit. But +one word more she did not utter, and the jealous eye of old +Pegtop was so constantly upon us that I refrained.</p> + +<p>There was vagueness and suggestion enough in the oracle to +supply work for many an hour of anxious conjecture, and many +a horrible vigil by night. Was I never to know peace at +Bartram-Haugh?</p> + +<p>Ten days of poor Milly's absence, and of my solitude, had +already passed, when my uncle sent for me to his room.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page339" id="page339"></a>[pg 331]</span> + +<p>When old Wyat stood at the door, mumbling and snarling +her message, my heart died within me.</p> + +<p>It was late—just that hour when dejected people feel their +anxieties most—when the cold grey of twilight has deepened to +its darkest shade, and before the cheerful candles are lighted, +and the safe quiet of the night sets in.</p> + +<p>When I entered my uncle's sitting-room—though his window-shutters +were open and the wan streaks of sunset visible through +them, like narrow lakes in the chasms of the dark western +clouds—a pair of candles were burning; one stood upon the +table by his desk, the other on the chimneypiece, before which +his tall, thin figure stooped. His hand leaned on the mantelpiece, +and the light from the candle just above his bowed head +touched his silvery hair. He was looking, as it seemed, into the +subsiding embers of the fire, and was a very statue of forsaken +dejection and decay.</p> + +<p>'Uncle!' I ventured to say, having stood for some time unperceived +near his table.</p> + +<p>'Ah, yes, Maud, my dear child—my <i>dear</i> child.'</p> + +<p>He turned, and with the candle in his hand, smiling his silvery +smile of suffering on me. He walked more feebly and stiffly, +I thought, than I had ever seen him move before.</p> + +<p>'Sit down, Maud—pray sit there.'</p> + +<p>I took the chair he indicated.</p> + +<p>'In my misery and my solitude, Maud, I have invoked you +like a spirit, and you appear.'</p> + +<p>With his two hands leaning on the table, he looked across at +me, in a stooping attitude; he had not seated himself. I continued +silent until it should be his pleasure to question or +address me.</p> + +<p>At last he said, raising himself and looking upward, with a +wild adoration—his finger-tips elevated and glimmering in the +faint mixed light—</p> + +<p>'No, I thank my Creator, I am not quite forsaken.'</p> + +<p>Another silence, during which he looked steadfastly at me, +and muttered, as if thinking aloud—</p> + +<p>'My guardian angel!—my guardian angel! Maud, <i>you</i> have +a heart.' He addressed me suddenly—'Listen, for a few moments, +to the appeal of an old and broken-hearted man—your +guardian—your uncle—your <i>suppliant</i>. I had resolved never to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page340" id="page340"></a>[pg 332]</span> + +speak to you more on this subject. But I was wrong. It was pride +that inspired me—mere pride.'</p> + +<p>I felt myself growing pale and flushed by turns during the +pause that followed.</p> + +<p>'I'm very miserable—very nearly desperate. What remains +for me—what remains? Fortune has done her worst—thrown +in the dust, her wheels rolled over me; and the servile world, +who follow her chariot like a mob, stamp upon the mangled +wretch. All this had passed over me, and left me scarred and +bloodless in this solitude. It was not my fault, Maud—I say it +was no fault of mine; I have no remorse, though more regrets +than I can count, and all scored with fire. As people passed by +Bartram, and looked upon its neglected grounds and smokeless +chimneys, they thought my plight, I dare say, about the worst +a proud man could be reduced to. They could not imagine one +half its misery. But this old hectic—this old epileptic—this old +spectre of wrongs, calamities, and follies, had still one hope—my +manly though untutored son—the last male scion of the +Ruthyns. Maud, have I lost him? His fate—my fate—I may say +<i>Milly's fate</i>;—we all await your sentence. He loves you, as +none but the very young can love, and that once only in a life. +He loves you desperately—a most affectionate nature—a Ruthyn, +the best blood in England—the last man of the race; and I—if I +lose him I lose all; and you will see me in my coffin, Maud, +before many months. I stand before you in the attitude of a +suppliant—shall I kneel?'</p> + +<p>His eyes were fixed on me with the light of despair, his +knotted hands clasped, his whole figure bowed toward me. I +was inexpressibly shocked and pained.</p> + +<p>'Oh, uncle! uncle!' I cried, and from very excitement I burst +into tears.</p> + +<p>I saw that his eyes were fixed on me with a dismal scrutiny. +I think he divined the nature of my agitation; but he determined, +notwithstanding, to press me while my helpless agitation +continued.</p> + +<p>'You see my suspense—you see my miserable and frightful +suspense. You are kind, Maud; you love your father's memory; +your pity your father's brother; you would not say no, and +place a pistol at his head?'</p> + +<p>'Oh! I must—I must—I <i>must</i> say no. Oh! spare me, uncle, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page341" id="page341"></a>[pg 333]</span> + +for Heaven's sake. Don't question me—don't press me. I could +not—I <i>could</i> not do what you ask.'</p> + +<p>'I yield, Maud—I yield, my dear. I will <i>not</i> press you; you +shall have time, your <i>own</i> time, to think. I will accept no answer +now—no, <i>none</i>, Maud.'</p> + +<p>He said this, raising his thin hand to silence me.</p> + +<p>'There, Maud, enough. I have spoken, as I always do to you, +frankly, perhaps too frankly; but agony and despair will speak +out, and plead, even with the most obdurate and cruel.'</p> + +<p>With these words Uncle Silas entered his bed-chamber, and shut +the door, not violently, but with a resolute hand, and I thought +I heard a cry.</p> + +<p>I hastened to my own room. I threw myself on my knees, and +thanked Heaven for the firmness vouchsafed me; I could not +believe it to have been my own.</p> + +<p>I was more miserable in consequence of this renewed suit on +behalf of my odious cousin than I can describe. My uncle had +taken such a line of importunity that it became a sort of agony +to resist. I thought of the possibility of my hearing of his +having made away with himself, and was every morning relieved +when I heard that he was still as usual. I have often wondered +since at my own firmness. In that dreadful interview with my +uncle I had felt, in the whirl and horror of my mind, on the +very point of submitting, just as nervous people are said to +throw themselves over precipices through sheer dread of falling.</p> + +<a name="chap51"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LI</h3> + +<h2><i>SARAH MATILDA COMES TO LIGHT</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Some time after this interview, one day as I sat, sad enough, in +my room, looking listlessly from the window, with good Mary +Quince, whom, whether in the house or in my melancholy +rambles, I always had by my side, I was startled by the sound +of a loud and shrill female voice, in violent hysterical action, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page342" id="page342"></a>[pg 334]</span> + +gabbling with great rapidity, sobbing, and very nearly screaming +in a sort of fury.</p> + +<p>I started up, staring at the door.</p> + +<p>'Lord bless us!' cried honest Mary Quince, with round eyes +and mouth agape, staring in the same direction.</p> + +<p>'Mary—Mary, what can it be?'</p> + +<p>'Are they beating some one down yonder? I don't know +where it comes from,' gasped Quince.</p> + +<p>'I will—I will—I'll see her. It's her I want. +Oo—hoo—hoo—hoo—oo—o—Miss Maud Ruthyn of Knowl. Miss Ruthyn +of Knowl. Hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo—oo!'</p> + +<p>'What on earth can it be?' I exclaimed, in great bewilderment +and terror.</p> + +<p>It was now plainly very near indeed, and I heard the voice of +our mild and shaky butler evidently remonstrating with the +distressed damsel.</p> + +<p>'I'll see her,' she continued, pouring a torrent of vile abuse +upon me, which stung me with a sudden sense of anger. What +had I done to be afraid of anyone? How dared anyone in my +uncle's house—in <i>my</i> house—mix my name up with her detestable +scurrilities?</p> + +<p>'For Heaven's sake, Miss, don't ye go out,' cried poor Quince; +'it's some drunken creature.'</p> + +<p>But I was very angry, and, like a fool as I was, I threw open +the door, exclaiming in a loud and haughty key—</p> + +<p>'Here is Miss Ruthyn of Knowl. Who wants to see her?'</p> + +<p>A pink and white young lady, with black tresses, violent, +weeping, shrill, voluble, was flouncing up the last stair, and +shook her dress out on the lobby; and poor old Giblets, as Milly +used to call him, was following in her wake, with many small +remonstrances and entreaties, perfectly unheeded.</p> + +<p>The moment I looked at this person, it struck me that she was +the identical lady whom I had seen in the carriage at Knowl +Warren. The next moment I was in doubt; the next, still +more so. She was decidedly thinner, and dressed by no means +in such lady-like taste. Perhaps she was hardly like her at all. I +began to distrust all these resemblances, and to fancy, with a +shudder, that they originated, perhaps, only in my own sick +brain.</p> + +<p>On seeing me, this young lady—as it seemed to me, a good + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page343" id="page343"></a>[pg 335]</span> + +deal of the barmaid or lady's-maid species—dried her eyes +fiercely, and, with a flaming countenance, called upon me peremptorily +to produce her 'lawful husband.' Her loud, insolent, +outrageous attack had the effect of enhancing my indignation, +and I quite forget what I said to her, but I well remember that +her manner became a good deal more decent. She was plainly +under the impression that I wanted to appropriate her husband, +or, at least, that he wanted to marry me; and she ran on at +such a pace, and her harangue was so passionate, incoherent, +and unintelligible, that I thought her out of her mind: she was +far from it, however. I think if she had allowed me even a +second for reflection, I should have hit upon her meaning. As +it was, nothing could exceed my perplexity, until, plucking a +soiled newspaper from her pocket, she indicated a particular +paragraph, already sufficiently emphasised by double lines of +red ink at its sides. It was a Lancashire paper, of about six +weeks since, and very much worn and soiled for its age. I remember +in particular a circular stain from the bottom of a +vessel, either of coffee or brown stout. The paragraph was as +follows, recording an event a year or more anterior to the date +of the paper:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'M<small>ARRIAGE</small>.—On Tuesday, August 7, 18—, at Leatherwig +Church, by the Rev. Arthur Hughes, Dudley R. Ruthyn, Esq., +only son and heir of Silas Ruthyn, Esq., of Bartram-Haugh, Derbyshire, +to Sarah Matilda, second daughter of John Mangles, +Esq., of Wiggan, in this county.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>At first I read nothing but amazement in this announcement, +but in another moment I felt how completely I was relieved; +and showing, I believe, my intense satisfaction in my countenance—for +the young lady eyed me with considerable surprise +and curiosity—I said—</p> + +<p>'This is extremely important. You must see Mr. Silas Ruthyn +this moment. I am certain he knows nothing of it. I will conduct +you to him.'</p> + +<p>'No more he does—I know that myself,' she replied, following +me with a self-asserting swagger, and a great rustling of +cheap silk.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page344" id="page344"></a>[pg 336]</span> + +<p>As we entered, Uncle Silas looked up from his sofa, and closed +his <i>Revue des Deux Mondes</i>.</p> + +<p>'What is all this?' he enquired, drily.</p> + +<p>'This lady has brought with her a newspaper containing an +extraordinary statement which affects our family,' I answered.</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas raised himself, and looked with a hard, narrow +scrutiny at the unknown young lady.</p> + +<p>'A libel, I suppose, in the paper?' he said, extending his hand +for it.</p> + +<p>'No, uncle—no; only a marriage,' I answered.</p> + +<p>'Not Monica?' he said, as he took it. 'Pah, it smells all over +of tobacco and beer,' he added, throwing a little eau de Cologne +over it.</p> + +<p>He raised it with a mixture of curiosity and disgust, saying +again 'pah,' as he did so.</p> + +<p>He read the paragraph, and as he did his face changed from +white, all over, to lead colour. He raised his eyes, and looked +steadily for some seconds at the young lady, who seemed a little +awed by his strange presence.</p> + +<p>'And you are, I suppose, the young lady, Sarah Matilda <i>née</i> +Mangles, mentioned in this little paragraph?' he said, in a tone +you would have called a sneer, were it not that it trembled.</p> + +<p>Sarah Matilda assented.</p> + +<p>'My son is, I dare say, within reach. It so happens that I wrote +to arrest his journey, and summon him here, some days since—some +days since—some days since,' he repeated slowly, like a +person whose mind has wandered far away from the theme on +which he is speaking.</p> + +<p>He had rung his bell, and old Wyat, always hovering about +his rooms, entered.</p> + +<p>'I want my son, immediately. If not in the house, send Harry +to the stables; if not there, let him be followed, instantly. Brice +is an active fellow, and will know where to find him. If he is in +Feltram, or at a distance, let Brice take a horse, and Master +Dudley can ride it back. He must be here without the loss of +one moment.'</p> + +<p>There intervened nearly a quarter of an hour, during which +whenever he recollected her, Uncle Silas treated the young lady +with a hyper-refined and ceremonious politeness, which appeared +to make her uneasy, and even a little shy, and certainly prevented + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page345" id="page345"></a>[pg 337]</span> + +a renewal of those lamentations and invectives which he +had heard faintly from the stair-head.</p> + +<p>But for the most part Uncle Silas seemed to forget us and +his book, and all that surrounded him, lying back in the corner +of his sofa, his chin upon his breast, and such a fearful shade +and carving on his features as made me prefer looking in any +direction but his.</p> + +<p>At length we heard the tread of Dudley's thick boots on the +oak boards, and faint and muffled the sound of his voice as he +cross-examined old Wyat before entering the chamber of audience.</p> + +<p>I think he suspected quite another visitor, and had no expectation +of seeing the particular young lady, who rose from her +chair as he entered, in an opportune flood of tears, crying—</p> + +<p>'Oh, Dudley, Dudley!—oh, Dudley, could you? Oh, Dudley, +your own poor Sal! You could not—you would not—your lawful +wife!'</p> + +<p>This and a good deal more, with cheeks that streamed like a +window-pane in a thunder-shower, spoke Sarah Matilda with all +her oratory, working his arm, which she clung to, up and down +all the time, like the handle of a pump. But Dudley was, manifestly, +confounded and dumbfoundered. He stood for a long time +gaping at his father, and stole just one sheepish glance at me; +and, with red face and forehead, looked down at his boots, and +then again at his father, who remained just in the attitude I +have described, and with the same forbidding and dreary intensity +in his strange face.</p> + +<p>Like a quarrelsome man worried in his sleep by a noise, Dudley +suddenly woke up, as it were, with a start, in a half-suppressed +exasperation, and shook her off with a jerk and a +muttered curse, as she whisked involuntarily into a chair, with +more violence than could have been pleasant.</p> + +<p>'Judging by your looks and demeanour, sir, I can almost anticipate +your answers,' said my uncle, addressing him suddenly. +'Will you be good enough—pray, madame (parenthetically to +our visitor), command yourself for a few moments. Is this young +person the daughter of a Mr. Mangles, and is her name Sarah +Matilda?'</p> + +<p>'I dessay,' answered Dudley, hurriedly.</p> + +<p>'Is she your wife?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page346" id="page346"></a>[pg 338]</span> + +<p>'Is she my wife?' repeated Dudley, ill at ease.</p> + +<p>'Yes, sir; it is a plain question.'</p> + +<p>All this time Sarah Matilda was perpetually breaking into +talk, and with difficulty silenced by my uncle.</p> + +<p>'Well, 'appen she says I am—does she?' replied Dudley.</p> + +<p>'Is she your wife, sir?'</p> + +<p>'Mayhap she so considers it, after a fashion,' he replied, with +an impudent swagger, seating himself as he did so.</p> + +<p>'What do <i>you</i> think, sir?' persisted Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>'I don't think nout about it,' replied Dudley, surlily.</p> + +<p>'Is that account true?' said my uncle, handing him the paper.</p> + +<p>'They wishes us to believe so, at any rate.'</p> + +<p>'Answer directly, sir. We have our thoughts upon it. If it +be true, it is capable of <i>every</i> proof. For expedition's sake I ask +you. There is no use in prevaricating.'</p> + +<p>'Who wants to deny it? It <i>is</i> true—there!'</p> + +<p>'<i>There!</i> I knew he would,' screamed the young woman, hysterically, +with a laugh of strange joy.</p> + +<p>'Shut up, will ye?' growled Dudley, savagely.</p> + +<p>'Oh, Dudley, Dudley, darling! what have I done?'</p> + +<p>'Bin and ruined me, jest—that's all.'</p> + +<p>'Oh! no, no, no, Dudley. Ye know I wouldn't. I could not—<i>could</i> +not hurt ye, Dudley. No, no, no!'</p> + +<p>He grinned at her, and, with a sharp side-nod, said—</p> + +<p>'Wait a bit.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Dudley, don't be vexed, dear. I did not mean it. I +would not hurt ye for all the world. Never.'</p> + +<p>'Well, never mind. You and yours tricked me finely; and +now you've got me—that's all.'</p> + +<p>My uncle laughed a very odd laugh.</p> + +<p>'I knew it, of course; and upon my word, madame, you and +he make a very pretty couple,' sneered Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>Dudley made no answer, looking, however, very savage.</p> + +<p>And with this poor young wife, so recently wedded, the low +villain had actually solicited me to marry him!</p> + +<p>I am quite certain that my uncle was as entirely ignorant as +I of Dudley's connection, and had, therefore, no participation +in this appalling wickedness.</p> + +<p>'And I have to congratulate you, my good fellow, on having + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page347" id="page347"></a>[pg 339]</span> + +secured the affections of a very suitable and vulgar young woman.'</p> + +<p>'I baint the first o' the family as a' done the same,' retorted +Dudley.</p> + +<p>At this taunt the old man's fury for a moment overpowered +him. In an instant he was on his feet, quivering from head to +foot. I never saw such a countenance—like one of those demon-grotesques +we see in the Gothic side-aisles and groinings—a +dreadful grimace, monkey-like and insane—and his thin hand +caught up his ebony stick, and shook it paralytically in the +air.</p> + +<p>'If ye touch me wi' that, I'll smash ye, by ——!' shouted +Dudley, furious, raising his hands and hitching his shoulder, +just as I had seen him when he fought Captain Oakley.</p> + +<p>For a moment this picture was suspended before me, and I +screamed, I know not what, in my terror. But the old man, the +veteran of many a scene of excitement, where men disguise their +ferocity in calm tones, and varnish their fury with smiles, had +not quite lost his self-command. He turned toward me and +said—</p> + +<p>'Does he know what he's saying?'</p> + +<p>And with an icy laugh of contempt, his high, thin forehead +still flushed, he sat down trembling.</p> + +<p>'If you want to say aught, I'll hear ye. Ye may jaw me all ye +like, and I'll stan' it.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, I may speak? Thank you,' sneered Uncle Silas, glancing +slowly round at me, and breaking into a cold laugh.</p> + +<p>'Ay, I don't mind cheek, not I; but you must not go for to do +that, ye know. Gammon. I won't stand a blow—I won't fro <i>no</i> +one.'</p> + +<p>'Well, sir, availing myself of your permission to speak, I may +remark, without offence to the young lady, that I don't happen +to recollect the name Mangles among the old families of England. +I presume you have chosen her chiefly for her virtues and +her graces.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sarah Matilda, not apprehending this compliment quite +as Uncle Silas meant it, dropped a courtesy, notwithstanding +her agitation, and, wiping her eyes, said, with a blubbered +smile—</p> + +<p>'You're very kind, sure.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page348" id="page348"></a>[pg 340]</span> + +<p>'I hope, for both your sakes, she has got a little money. I +don't see how you are to live else. You're too lazy for a game-keeper; +and I don't think you could keep a pot-house, you are +so addicted to drinking and quarrelling. The only thing I am +quite clear upon is, that you and your wife must find some other +abode than this. You shall depart this evening: and now, Mr. +and Mrs. Dudley Ruthyn, you may quit this room, if you +please.'</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas had risen, and made them one of his old courtly +bows, smiling a death-like sneer, and pointing to the door with +his trembling fingers.</p> + +<p>'Come, will ye?' said Dudley, grinding his teeth. 'You're +pretty well done here.'</p> + +<p>Not half understanding the situation, but looking woefully +bewildered, she dropped a farewell courtesy at the door.</p> + +<p>'Will ye <i>cut</i>?' barked Dudley, in a tone that made her jump; +and suddenly, without looking about, he strode after her from +the room.</p> + +<p>'Maud, how shall I recover this? The vulgar <i>villain</i>—the +<i>fool</i>! +What an abyss were we approaching! and for me the last hope +gone—and for me utter, utter, irretrievable ruin.'</p> + +<p>He was passing his fingers tremulously back and forward along +the top of the mantelpiece, like a man in search of something, +and continued so, looking along it, feebly and vacantly, although +there was nothing there.</p> + +<p>'I wish, uncle—you do not know how much I wish—I could +be of any use to you. Maybe I can?'</p> + +<p>He turned, and looked at me sharply.</p> + +<p>'Maybe you can,' he echoed slowly. 'Yes, maybe you can,' he +repeated more briskly. 'Let us—let us see—let us think—that +d—— fellow!—my head!'</p> + +<p>'You're not well, uncle?'</p> + +<p>'Oh! yes, very well. We'll talk in the evening—I'll send for +you.'</p> + +<p>I found Wyat in the next room, and told her to hasten, as I +thought he was ill. I hope it was not very selfish, but such had +grown to be my horror of seeing him in one of his strange seizures, +that I hastened from the room precipitately—partly to +escape the risk of being asked to remain.</p> + +<p>The walls of Bartram House are thick, and the recess at the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page349" id="page349"></a>[pg 341]</span> + +doorway deep. As I closed my uncle's door, I heard Dudley's +voice on the stairs. I did not wish to be seen by him or by his +'lady', as his poor wife called herself, who was engaged in vehement +dialogue with him as I emerged, and not caring either +to re-enter my uncle's room, I remained quietly ensconced +within the heavy door-case, in which position I overheard Dudley +say with a savage snarl—</p> + +<p>'You'll jest go back the way ye came. I'm not goin' wi' ye, if +that's what ye be drivin' at—dang your impitins!'</p> + +<p>'Oh! Dudley, dear, what have I done—what <i>have</i> I done—ye +hate me so?'</p> + +<p>'What a' ye done? Ye vicious little beast, ye! You've got us +turned out an' disinherited wi' yer d——d bosh, that's all; don't +ye think it's enough?'</p> + +<p>I could only hear her sobs and shrill tones in reply, for they +were descending the stairs; and Mary Quince reported to me, in +a horrified sort of way, that she saw him bundle her into the +fly at the door, like a truss of hay into a hay-loft. And he stood +with his head in at the window, scolding her, till it drove away.</p> + +<p>'I knew he wor jawing her, poor thing! By the way he kep' +waggin' his head—an' he had his fist inside, a shakin' in her +face I'm sure he looked wicked enough for anything; an' she +a crying like a babby, an' lookin' back, an' wavin' her wet hankicher +to him—poor thing!—and she so young! 'Tis a pity. +Dear me! I often think, Miss, 'tis well for me I never was +married. And see how we all would like to get husbands for all +that, though so few is happy together. 'Tis a queer world, and +them that's single is maybe the best off after all.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page350" id="page350"></a>[pg 342]</span> + +<a name="chap52"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LII</h3> + +<h2><i>THE PICTURE OF A WOLF</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I went down that evening to the sitting-room which had been +assigned to Milly and me, in search of a book—my good Mary +Quince always attending me. The door was a little open, and I +was startled by the light of a candle proceeding from the fireside, +together with a considerable aroma of tobacco and brandy.</p> + +<p>On my little work-table, which he had drawn beside the +hearth, lay Dudley's pipe, his brandy-flask, and an empty tumbler; +and he was sitting with one foot on the fender, his elbow +on his knee, and his head resting in his hand, weeping. His back +being a little toward the door, he did not perceive us; and we +saw him rub his knuckles in his eyes, and heard the sounds of +his selfish lamentation.</p> + +<p>Mary and I stole away quietly, leaving him in possession, +wondering when he was to leave the house, according to the +sentence which I had heard pronounced upon him.</p> + +<p>I was delighted to see old 'Giblets' quietly strapping his +luggage in the hall, and heard from him in a whisper that he +was to leave that evening by rail—he did not know whither.</p> + +<p>About half an hour afterwards, Mary Quince, going out to +reconnoitre, heard from old Wyat in the lobby that he had just +started to meet the train.</p> + +<p>Blessed be heaven for that deliverance! An evil spirit had +been cast out, and the house looked lighter and happier. It +was not until I sat down in the quiet of my room that the +scenes and images of that agitating day began to move before +my memory in orderly procession, and for the first time I +appreciated, with a stunning sense of horror and a perfect rapture +of thanksgiving, the value of my escape and the immensity +of the danger which had threatened me. It may have been +miserable weakness—I think it was. But I was young, nervous, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page351" id="page351"></a>[pg 343]</span> + +and afflicted with a troublesome sort of conscience, which occasionally +went mad, and insisted, in small things as well as great, +upon sacrifices which my reason now assures me were absurd. +Of Dudley I had a perfect horror; and yet had that system +of solicitation, that dreadful and direct appeal to my compassion, +that placing of my feeble girlhood in the seat of the arbiter +of my aged uncle's hope or despair, been long persisted +in, my resistance might have been worn out—who can tell?—and +I self-sacrificed! Just as criminals in Germany are teased, +and watched, and cross-examined, year after year, incessantly, +into a sort of madness; and worn out with the suspense, the +iteration, the self-restraint, and insupportable fatigue, they at +last cut all short, accuse themselves, and go infinitely relieved +to the scaffold—you may guess, then, for me, nervous, self-diffident, +and alone, how intense was the comfort of knowing that +Dudley was actually married, and the harrowing importunity +which had just commenced for ever silenced.</p> + +<p>That night I saw my uncle. I pitied him, though I feared him. +I was longing to tell him how anxious I was to help him, if +only he could point out the way. It was in substance what I had +already said, but now strongly urged. He brightened; he sat up +perpendicularly in his chair with a countenance, not weak or +fatuous now, but resolute and searching, and which contracted +into dark thought or calculation as I talked.</p> + +<p>I dare say I spoke confusedly enough. I was always nervous +in his presence; there was, I fancy, something mesmeric in the +odd sort of influence which, without effort, he exercised over +my imagination.</p> + +<p>Sometimes this grew into a dismal panic, and Uncle Silas—polished, +mild—seemed unaccountably horrible to me. Then it +was no longer an accidental fascination of electro-biology. It +was something more. His nature was incomprehensible by me. +He was without the nobleness, without the freshness, without +the softness, without the frivolities of such human nature as I +had experienced, either within myself or in other persons. I +instinctively felt that appeals to sympathies or feelings could no +more affect him than a marble monument. He seemed to accommodate +his conversation to the moral structure of others, just +as spirits are said to assume the shape of mortals. There were the +sensualities of the gourmet for his body, and there ended his + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page352" id="page352"></a>[pg 344]</span> + +human nature, as it seemed to me. Through that semi-transparent +structure I thought I could now and then discern the light +or the glare of his inner life. But I understood it not.</p> + +<p>He never scoffed at what was good or noble—his hardest critic +could not nail him to one such sentence; and yet, it seemed +somehow to me that his unknown nature was a systematic blasphemy +against it all. If fiend he was, he was yet something higher +than the garrulous, and withal feeble, demon of Goethe. He assumed +the limbs and features of our mortal nature. He shrouded +his own, and was a profoundly reticent Mephistopheles. Gentle +he had been to me—kindly he had nearly always spoken; but +it seemed like the mild talk of one of those goblins of the desert, +whom Asiatic superstition tells of, who appear in friendly shapes +to stragglers from the caravan, beckon to them from afar, call +them by their names, and lead them where they are found no +more. Was, then, all his kindness but a phosphoric radiance +covering something colder and more awful than the grave?</p> + +<p>'It is very noble of you, Maud—it is angelic; your sympathy +with a ruined and despairing old man. But I fear you will recoil. +I tell you frankly that less than twenty thousand pounds +will not extricate me from the quag of ruin in which I am +entangled—lost!'</p> + +<p>'Recoil! Far from it. I'll do it. There must be some way.'</p> + +<p>'Enough, my fair young protectress—celestial enthusiast, +enough. Though you do not, yet I recoil. I could not bring myself +to accept this sacrifice. What signifies, even to me, my extrication? +I lie a mangled wretch, with fifty mortal wounds on +my crown; what avails the healing of one wound, when there +are so many beyond all cure? Better to let me perish where I fall; +and reserve your money for the worthier objects whom, perhaps, +hereafter may avail to save.'</p> + +<p>'But I <i>will</i> do this. I must. I cannot see you suffer with the +power in my hands unemployed to help you,' I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>'Enough, dear Maud; the will is here—enough: there is balm +in your compassion and good-will. Leave me, ministering angel; +for the present I cannot. If you <i>will</i>, we can talk of it again. +Good-night.'</p> + +<p>And so we parted.</p> + +<p>The attorney from Feltram, I afterwards heard, was with him +nearly all that night, trying in vain to devise by their joint + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page353" id="page353"></a>[pg 345]</span> + +ingenuity any means by which I might tie myself up. But there +were none. I could not bind myself.</p> + +<p>I was myself full of the hope of helping him. What was this +sum to me, great as it seemed? Truly nothing. I could have +spared it, and never felt the loss.</p> + +<p>I took up a large quarto with coloured prints, one of the few +books I had brought with me from dear old Knowl. Too much +excited to hope for sleep in bed, I opened it, and turned over +the leaves, my mind still full of Uncle Silas and the sum I hoped +to help him with.</p> + +<p>Unaccountably one of those coloured engravings arrested my +attention. It represented the solemn solitude of a lofty forest; +a girl, in Swiss costume, was flying in terror, and as she fled +flinging a piece of meat behind her which she had taken from +a little market-basket hanging upon her arm. Through the glade +a pack of wolves were pursuing her.</p> + +<p>The narrative told, that on her return homeward with her +marketing, she had been chased by wolves, and barely escaped by +flying at her utmost speed, from time to time retarding, as she +did so, the pursuit, by throwing, piece by piece, the contents of +her basket, in her wake, to be devoured and fought for by the +famished beasts of prey.</p> + +<p>This print had seized my imagination. I looked with a curious +interest on the print: something in the disposition of the trees, +their great height, and rude boughs, interlacing, and the awful +shadow beneath, reminded me of a portion of the Windmill +Wood where Milly and I had often rambled. Then I looked at +the figure of the poor girl, flying for her life, and glancing terrified +over her shoulder. Then I gazed on the gaping, murderous +pack, and the hoary brute that led the van; and then I leaned +back in my chair, and I thought—perhaps some latent association +suggested what seemed a thing so unlikely—of a fine print +in my portfolio from Vandyke's noble picture of Belisarius. Idly +I traced with my pencil, as I leaned back, on an envelope that +lay upon the table, this little inscription. It was mere fiddling; +and, absurd as it looked, there was nothing but an honest meaning +in it:—'20,000<i>l</i>. Date Obolum Belisario!' My dear father +had translated the little Latin inscription for me, and I had +written it down as a sort of exercise of memory; and also, +perhaps, as expressive of that sort of compassion which my + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page354" id="page354"></a>[pg 346]</span> + +uncle's fall and miserable fate excited invariably in me. So I +threw this queer little memorandum upon the open leaf of the +book, and again the flight, the pursuit, and the bait to stay it, +engaged my eye. And I heard a voice near the hearthstone, as +I thought, say, in a stern whisper, 'Fly the fangs of Belisarius!'</p> + +<p>'What's that?' said I, turning sharply to Mary Quince.</p> + +<p>Mary rose from her work at the fireside, staring at me with +that odd sort of frown that accompanies fear and curiosity.</p> + +<p>'You spoke? Did you speak?' I said, catching her by the +arm, very much frightened myself.</p> + +<p>'No, Miss; no, dear!' answered she, plainly thinking that I +was a little wrong in my head.</p> + +<p>There could be no doubt it was a trick of the imagination, and +yet to this hour I could recognise that clear stern voice among a +thousand, were it to speak again.</p> + +<p>Jaded after a night of broken sleep and much agitation, I was +summoned next morning to my uncle's room.</p> + +<p>He received me <i>oddly</i>, I thought. His manner had changed, +and made an uncomfortable impression upon me. He was gentle, +kind, smiling, submissive, as usual; but it seemed to me that +he experienced henceforth toward me the same half-superstitous +repulsion which I had always felt from him. Dream, or voice, +or vision—which had done it? There seemed to be an unconscious +antipathy and fear. When he thought I was not looking, +his eyes were sometimes grimly fixed for a moment upon me. +When I looked at him, his eyes were upon the book before him; +and when he spoke, a person not heeding what he uttered +would have fancied that he was reading aloud from it.</p> + +<p>There was nothing tangible but this shrinking from the encounter +of our eyes. I said he was kind as usual. He was even +more so. But there was this new sign of our silently repellant +natures. Dislike it could not be. He knew I longed to serve him. +Was it shame? Was there not a shade of horror in it?</p> + +<p>'I have not slept,' said he. 'For me the night has passed in +thought, and the fruit of it is this—I <i>cannot</i>, Maud, accept your +noble offer.'</p> + +<p>'I am <i>very</i> sorry,' exclaimed I, in all honesty.</p> + +<p>'I know it, my dear niece, and appreciate your goodness; but +there are many reasons—none of them, I trust, ignoble—and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page355" id="page355"></a>[pg 347]</span> + +which together render it impossible. No. It would be misunderstood—my +honour shall not be impugned.'</p> + +<p>'But, sir, that could not be; you have never proposed it. It +would be all, from first to last, <i>my</i> doing.'</p> + +<p>'True, dear Maud, but I know, alas! more of this evil and +slanderous world than your happy inexperience can do. Who +will receive our testimony? None—no, not one. The difficulty—the +insuperable moral difficulty is this—that I should expose +myself to the plausible imputation of having worked upon you, +unduly, for this end; and more, that I could not hold myself +quite free from blame. It is your voluntary goodness, Maud. But +you are young, inexperienced; and it is, I hold it, my duty to +stand between you and any dealing with your property at so +unripe an age. Some people may call this Quixotic. In my mind +it is an imperious mandate of conscience; and I peremptorily +refuse to disobey it, although within three weeks an execution +will be in this house!'</p> + +<p>I did not quite know what an execution meant; but from two +harrowing novels, with whose distresses I was familiar, I knew +that it indicated some direful process of legal torture and spoliation.</p> + +<p>'Oh, uncle I—oh, sir!—you cannot allow this to happen. What +will people say of me? And—and there is poor Milly—and +<i>everything</i>! Think what it will be.'</p> + +<p>'It cannot be helped—<i>you</i> cannot help it, Maud. Listen to me. +There will be an execution here, I cannot say exactly how soon, +but, I think, in a little more than a fortnight. I must provide for +your comfort. You must leave. I have arranged that you shall +join Milly, for the present, in France, till I have time to look +about me. You had better, I think, write to your cousin, Lady +Knollys. She, with all her oddities, has a heart. Can you say, +Maud, that I have been kind?'</p> + +<p>'You have never been anything but kind,' I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>'That I've been self-denying when you made me a generous +offer?' he continued. 'That I now act to spare you pain? You +may tell her, not as a message from me, but as a fact, that I am +seriously thinking of vacating my guardianship—that I feel I +have done her an injustice, and that, so soon as my mind is a +little less tortured, I shall endeavour to effect a reconciliation +with her, and would wish ultimately to transfer the care of your + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page356" id="page356"></a>[pg 348]</span> + +person and education to <i>her</i>. You may say I have no longer an +interest even in vindicating my name. My son has wrecked himself +by a marriage. I forgot to tell you he stopped at Feltram, +and this morning wrote to pray a parting interview. If I grant it, +it shall be the last. I shall never see him or correspond with him +more.'</p> + +<p>The old man seemed much overcome, and held his hankerchief +to his eyes.</p> + +<p>'He and his wife are, I understand, about to emigrate; the +sooner the better,' he resumed, bitterly. 'Deeply, Maud, I regret +having tolerated his suit to you, even for a moment. Had +I thought it over, as I did the whole case last night, nothing +could have induced me to permit it. But I have lived for so long +like a monk in his cell, my wants and observation limited to +the narrow compass of this chamber, that my knowledge of the +world has died out with my youth and my hopes: and I did not, +as I ought to have done, consider many objections. Therefore, +dear Maud, on this one subject, I entreat, be silent; its discussion +can effect nothing now. I was wrong, and frankly ask +you to forget my mistake.'</p> + +<p>I had been on the point of writing to Lady Knollys on this +odious subject, when, happily, it was set at rest by the disclosure +of yesterday; and being so, I could have no difficulty +in acceding to my uncle's request. He was conceding so much +that I could not withhold so trifling a concession in return.</p> + +<p>'I hope Monica will continue to be kind to poor Milly after +I am gone.'</p> + +<p>Here there were a few seconds of meditation.</p> + +<p>'Maud, you will not, I think, refuse to convey the substance +of what I have just said in a letter to Lady Knollys, and perhaps +you would have no objection to let me see it when it is written. +It will prevent the possibility of its containing any misconception +of what I have just spoken: and, Maud, you won't forget +to say whether I have been kind. It would be a satisfaction to me +to know that Monica was assured that I never either teased or +bullied my young ward.'</p> + +<p>With these words he dismissed me; and forthwith I completed +such a letter as would quite embody what he had said; and in +my own glowing terms, being in high good-humour with Uncle +Silas, recorded my estimate of his gentleness and good-nature; + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page357" id="page357"></a>[pg 349]</span> + +and when I submitted it to him, he expressed his admiration of +what he was pleased to call my cleverness in so exactly conveying +what he wished, and his gratitude for the handsome +terms in which I had spoken of my old guardian.</p> + +<a name="chap53"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LIII</h3> +<h2><i>AN ODD PROPOSAL</i></h2> + +<p> </p> + +<p>As I and Mary Quince returned from our walk that day, and +had entered the hall, I was surprised most disagreeably by +Dudley's emerging from the vestibule at the foot of the great +staircase. He was, I suppose, in his travelling costume—a rather +soiled white surtout, a great coloured muffler in folds about his +throat, his 'chimney-pot' on, and his fur cap sticking out from +his pocket. He had just descended, I suppose, from my uncle's +room. On seeing me he stepped back, and stood with his shoulders +to the wall, like a mummy in a museum.</p> + +<p>I pretended to have a few words to say to Mary before leaving +the hall, in the hope that, as he seemed to wish to escape me, he +would take the opportunity of getting quickly off the scene.</p> + +<p>But he had changed his mind, it would seem, in the interval; +for when I glanced in that direction again he had moved toward +us, and stood in the hall with his hat in his hand. I must +do him the justice to say he looked horribly dismal, sulky, and +frightened.</p> + +<p>'Ye'll gi'e me a word, Miss—only a thing I ought to say—for +your good; by ——, mind, it's for <i>your</i> good, Miss.'</p> + +<p>Dudley stood a little way off, viewing me, with his hat in +both hands and a 'glooming' countenance.</p> + +<p>I detested the idea of either hearing or speaking to him; but +I had no resolution to refuse, and only saying 'I can't imagine +what you can wish to speak to me about,' I approached him. +'Wait there at the banister, Quince.'</p> + +<p>There was a fragrance of alcohol about the flushed face and + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page358" id="page358"></a>[pg 350]</span> + +gaudy muffler of this odious cousin, which heightened the effect +of his horribly dismal features. He was speaking, besides, a little +thickly; but his manner was dejected, and he was treating me +with an elaborate and discomfited respect which reassured me.</p> + +<p>'I'm a bit up a tree, Miss,' he said shuffling his feet on the oak +floor. 'I behaved a d—— fool; but I baint one o' they sort. +I'm a fellah as 'ill fight his man, an' stan' up to 'm fair, don't +ye see? An' <i>baint</i> one o' they sort—no, <i>dang</i> it, I baint.'</p> + +<p>Dudley delivered his puzzling harangue with a good deal of +undertoned vehemence, and was strangely agitated. He, too, had +got an unpleasant way of avoiding my eye, and glancing along +the floor from corner to corner as he spoke, which gave him a +very hang-dog air.</p> + +<p>He was twisting his fingers in his great sandy whisker, and +pulling it roughly enough to drag his cheek about by that savage +purchase; and with his other hand he was crushing and +rubbing his hat against his knee.</p> + +<p>'The old boy above there be half crazed, I think; he don't +mean half as he says thof, not he. But I'm in a bad fix anyhow—a +regular sell it's been, and I can't get a tizzy out of him. So, +ye see, I'm up a tree, Miss; and he sich a one, he'll make it a +wuss mull if I let him. He's as sharp wi' me as one o' them lawyer +chaps, dang 'em, and he's a lot of I O's and rubbitch o' mine; +and Bryerly writes to me he can't gi'e me my legacy, 'cause he's +got a notice from Archer and Sleigh a warnin' him not to gi'e +me as much as a bob; for I signed it away to governor, he says—which +I believe's a lie. I may a' signed some writing—'appen +I did—when I was a bit cut one night. But that's no way to +catch a gentleman, and 'twon't stand. There's justice to be had, +and 'twon't <i>stand</i>, I say; and I'm not in 'is hands that way. Thof +I may be a bit up the spout, too, I don't deny; only I baint +agoin' the whole hog all at once. I'm none o' they sort. He'll +find I baint.'</p> + +<p>Here Mary Quince coughed demurely from the foot of the +stair, to remind me that the conversation was protracted.</p> + +<p>'I don't very well understand,' I said gravely; 'and I am now +going up-stairs.'</p> + +<p>'Don't jest a minute, Miss; it's only a word, ye see. We'll be +goin' t' Australia, Sary Mangles, an' me, aboard the <i>Seamew</i>, on +the 5th. I'm for Liverpool to-night, and she'll meet me there, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page359" id="page359"></a>[pg 351]</span> + +an'—an', please God Almighty, ye'll never see me more; an I'd +rather gi'e ye a lift, Maud, before I go: an' I tell ye what, if +ye'll just gi'e me your written promise ye'll gi'e me that twenty +thousand ye were offering to gi'e the Governor, I'll take ye +cleverly out o' Bartram, and put ye wi' your cousin Knollys, or +anywhere ye like best.'</p> + +<p>'Take me from Bartram—for twenty thousand pounds! Take +me away from my guardian! You seem to forget, sir,' my indignation +rising as I spoke, 'that I can visit my cousin, Lady +Knollys, whenever I please.'</p> + +<p>'Well, that is as it may be,' he said, with a sulky deliberation, +scraping about a little bit of paper that lay on the floor with +the toe of his boot.</p> + +<p>'It <i>is</i> as it may be, and that is as I say, sir; and considering +how you have treated me—your mean, treacherous, and infamous +suit, and your cruel treason to your poor wife, I am amazed +at your effrontery.'</p> + +<p>I turned to leave him, being, in truth, in one of my passions.</p> + +<p>'Don't ye be a flying out,' he said peremptorily, and catching +me roughly by the wrist, 'I baint a-going to vex ye. What a +mouth you be, as can't see your way! Can't ye speak wi' common +sense, like a woman—dang it—for once, and not keep brawling +like a brat—can't ye see what I'm saying? I'll take ye out o' all +this, and put ye wi' your cousin, or wheresoever you list, if ye'll +gi'e me what I say.'</p> + +<p>He was, for the first time, looking me in the face, but with +contracted eyes, and a countenance very much agitated.</p> + +<p>'Money?' said I, with a prompt disdain.</p> + +<p>'Ay, money—twenty thousand pounds—<i>there</i>. On or off?' he +replied, with an unpleasant sort of effort.</p> + +<p>'You ask my promise for twenty thousand pounds, and you +shan't have it.'</p> + +<p>My cheeks were flaming, and I stamped on the ground as I +spoke.</p> + +<p>If he had known how to appeal to my better feelings, I am +sure I should have done, perhaps not quite that, all at once +at least, but something handsome, to assist him. But this application +was so shabby and insolent! What could he take me for? +That I should suppose his placing me with Cousin Monica constituted +her my guardian? Why, he must fancy me the merest + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page360" id="page360"></a>[pg 352]</span> + +baby. There was a kind of stupid cunning in this that disgusted +my good-nature and outraged my self-importance.</p> + +<p>'You won't gi'e me that, then?' he said, looking down again, +with a frown, and working his mouth and cheeks about as I +could fancy a man rolling a piece of tobacco in his jaw.</p> + +<p>'Certainly <i>not</i>, sir,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'<i>Take</i> it, then,' he replied, still looking down, very black and +discontented.</p> + +<p>I joined Mary Quince, extremely angry. As I passed under the +carved oak arch of the vestibule, I saw his figure in the deepening +twilight. The picture remains in its murky halo fixed in +memory. Standing where he last spoke in the centre of the hall, +not looking after me, but downward, and, as well as I could +see, with the countenance of a man who has lost a game, and a +ruinous wager too—that is black and desperate. I did not utter +a syllable on the way up. When I reached my room, I began to +reconsider the interview more at my leisure. I was, such were my +ruminations, to have agreed at once to his preposterous offer, +and to have been driven, while he smirked and grimaced behind +my back at his acquaintances, through Feltram in his dog-cart +to Elverston; and then, to the just indignation of my uncle, to +have been delivered up to Lady Knolly's guardianship, and to +have handed my driver, as I alighted, the handsome fare of +20.000<i>l</i>. It required the impudence of Tony Lumpkin, without +either his fun or his shrewdness, to have conceived such a prodigious +practical joke.</p> + +<p>'Maybe you'd like a little tea, Miss?' insinuated Mary Quince.</p> + +<p>'What impertinence!' I exclaimed, with one of my angry +stamps on the floor. 'Not you, dear old Quince,' I added. 'No—no +tea just now.'</p> + +<p>And I resumed my ruminations, which soon led me to this +train of thought—'Stupid and insulting as Dudley's proposition +was, it yet involved a great treason against my uncle. Should I be +weak enough to be silent, may he not, wishing to forestall me, +misrepresent all that has passed, so as to throw the blame altogether +upon me?'</p> + +<p>This idea seized upon me with a force which I could not withstand; +and on the impulse of the moment I obtained admission +to my uncle, and related exactly what had passed. When I had +finished my narrative, which he listened to without once raising + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page361" id="page361"></a>[pg 353]</span> + +his eyes, my uncle cleared his throat once or twice, as if to +speak. He was smiling—I thought with an effort, and with elevated +brows. When I concluded, he hummed one of those sliding +notes, which a less refined man might have expressed by a +whistle of surprise and contempt, and again he essayed to speak, +but continued silent. The fact is, he seemed to me very much +disconcerted. He rose from his seat, and shuffled about the room +in his slippers, I believe affecting only to be in search of something, +opening and shutting two or three drawers, and turning +over some books and papers; and at length, taking up some +loose sheets of manuscript, he appeared to have found what +he was looking for, and began to read them carelessly, with his +back towards me, and with another effort to clear his voice, +he said at last—</p> + +<p>'And pray, what could the fool mean by all that?'</p> + +<p>'I think he must have taken me for an idiot, sir,' I answered.</p> + +<p>'Not unlikely. He has lived in a stable, among horses and +ostlers; he has always seemed to me something like a centaur—that +is a centaur composed not of man and horse, but of an ape +and an ass.'</p> + +<p>And upon this jibe he laughed, not coldly and sarcastically, +as was his wont, but, I thought, flurriedly. And, continuing to +look into his papers, he said, his back still toward me as he +read—</p> + +<p>'And he did not favour you with an exposition of his meaning, +which, except in so far as it estimated his deserts at the modest +sum you have named, appears to me too oracular to be interpreted +without a kindred inspiration?'</p> + +<p>And again he laughed. He was growing more like himself.</p> + +<p>'As to your visiting your cousin, Lady Knollys, the stupid +rogue had only five minutes before heard me express my wish +that you should do so before leaving this. I am quite resolved +you shall—that is, unless, dear Maud, you should yourself object; +but, of course, we must wait for an invitation, which, I conjecture, +will not be long in coming. In fact, your letter will +naturally bring it about, and, I trust, open the way to a permanent +residence with her. The more I think it over, the more +am I convinced, dear niece, that as things are likely to turn out, +my roof would be no desirable shelter for you; and that, under +all circumstances, hers would. Such were my motives, Maud, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page362" id="page362"></a>[pg 354]</span> + +in opening, through your letter, a door of reconciliation between +us.'</p> + +<p>I felt that I ought to have kissed his hand—that he had indicated +precisely the future that I most desired; and yet there was +within me a vague feeling, akin to suspicion—akin to dismay +which chilled and overcast my soul.</p> + +<p>'But, Maud,' he said, 'I am disquieted to think of that stupid +jackanapes presuming to make you such an offer! A creditable +situation truly—arriving in the dark at Elverston, under the solitary +escort of that wild young man, with whom you would have +fled from my guardianship; and, Maud, I tremble as I ask +myself the question, would he have conducted you to Elverston +at all? When you have lived as long in the world as I, you will +appreciate its wickedness more justly.' Here there was a little +pause.</p> + +<p>'I know, my dear, that were he convinced of his legal marriage +with that young woman,' he resumed, perceiving how +startled I looked, 'such an idea, of course, would not have +entered his head; but he does not believe any such thing. Contrary +to fact and logic, he does honestly think that his hand is +still at his disposal; and I certainly do suspect that he would +have employed that excursion in endeavouring to persuade you +to think as he does. Be that how it may, however, it is satisfactory +to me to know that you shall never more be troubled by +one word from that ill-regulated young man. I made him my +adieux, such as they were, this evening; and never more shall +he enter the walls of Bartram-Haugh while we two live.'</p> + +<p>Uncle Silas replaced the papers which had ostensibly interested +him so much, and returned. There was a vein which was +visible near the angle of his lofty temple, and in moments of +agitation stood out against the surrounding pallor in a knotted +blue cord; and as he came back smiling askance, I saw this sign +of inward tumult.</p> + +<p>'We can, however, afford to despise the follies and knaveries +of the world, Maud, as long as we act, as we have hitherto done, +with perfect confidence in each other. Heaven bless you, dear +Maud! Your report troubled me, I believe, more than it need—troubled +me a good deal; but reflection assures me it is nothing. +He is gone. In a few days' time he will be on the sea. I will issue +my orders to-morrow morning, and he will never more, during + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page363" id="page363"></a>[pg 355]</span> + +his brief stay in England, gain admission to Bartram-Haugh. +Good-night, my good niece; I thank you.'</p> + +<p>And so I returned to Mary Quince, on the whole happier than +I had left her, but still with the confused and jarring vision I +could not interpret perpetually rising before me; and as, from +time to time, shapeless anxieties agitated me, relieving them by +appeals to Him who alone is wise and strong.</p> + +<p>Next day brought me a goodnatured gossiping letter from dear +Milly, written in compulsory French, which was, in some places, +very difficult to interpret. She gave me a very pleasant account +of the place, and her opinion of the girls who were inmates, and +mentioned some of the nuns with high commendation. The +language plainly cramped poor Milly's genius; but although +there was by no means so much fun as an honest English letter +would have brought me, there could be no mistake about her +liking the place, and she expressed her honest longing to see me +in the most affectionate terms.</p> + +<p>This letter came enclosed in one to my uncle, from the proper +authority in the convent; and as there was neither address +within, nor post-mark without, I was as much in the dark as +ever as to poor Milly's whereabouts.</p> + +<p>Pencilled across the envelope of this letter, in my uncle's hand, +were the words, 'Let me have your answer when sealed, and I +will transmit it.—S.R.'</p> + +<p>When, accordingly, some days later, I did place my letter +to Milly in my uncle's hands, he told me the reason of his reserves +on the subject.</p> + +<p>'I thought it best, dear Maud, not to plague you with a secret, +and Milly's present address is one. It will in a few weeks +become the rallying-point of our diverse routes, when you shall +meet her, and I join you both. Nobody, until the storm shall +have blown over, must know where I am to be found, except +my lawyer; and I think you would prefer ignorance to the +trouble of keeping a secret on which so much may depend.'</p> + +<p>This being reasonable, and even considerate, I acquiesced.</p> + +<p>In that interval there reached me such a charming, gay, and +affectionate letter—a very <i>long</i> letter, too—though the writer was +scarcely seven miles away, from dear Cousin Monica, full of +pleasant gossip, and rose-coloured and golden castles in the air, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page364" id="page364"></a>[pg 356]</span> + +and the kindest interest in poor Milly, and the warmest affection +for me.</p> + +<p>One other incident varied that interval, if possible more pleasantly +than those. It was the announcement, in a Liverpool paper, +of the departure of the <i>Seamew</i>, bound for Melbourne; and +among the passengers were reported 'Dudley Ruthyn, Esquire, +of Bartram-H., and Mrs. D. Ruthyn.'</p> + +<p>And now I began to breathe freely, I plainly saw the end of +my probation approaching: a short excursion to France, a happy +meeting with Milly, and then a delightful residence with Cousin +Monica for the remainder of my nonage.</p> + +<p>You will say then that my spirits and my serenity were quite +restored. Not quite. How marvellously lie our anxieties, in +filmy layers, one over the other! Take away that which has lain +on the upper surface for so long—the care of cares—the only one, +as it seemed to you, between your soul and the radiance of +Heaven—and straight you find a new stratum there. As physical +science tells us no fluid is without its skin, so does it seem with +this fine medium of the soul, and these successive films of care +that form upon its surface on mere contact with the upper air +and light.</p> + +<p>What was my new trouble? A very fantastic one, you will say—the +illusion of a self-tormentor. It was the face of Uncle Silas +which haunted me. Notwithstanding the old pale smile, there +was a shrinking grimness, and the always-averted look.</p> + +<p>Sometimes I fancied his mind was disordered. I could not +account for the eerie lights and shadows that flickered on his +face, except so. There was a look of shame and fear of me, amazing +as that seems, in the sheen of his peaked smile.</p> + +<p>I thought, 'Perhaps he blames himself for having tolerated +Dudley's suit—for having urged it on grounds of personal distress—for +having altogether lowered, though under sore temptation, +both himself and his office; and he thinks that he has forfeited +my respect.'</p> + +<p>Such was my analysis; but in the <i>coup-d'oeil</i> of that white +face that dazzled me in darkness, and haunted my daily reveries +with a faded light, there was an intangible character of the +insidious and the terrible.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page365" id="page365"></a>[pg 357]</span> + +<a name="chap54"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LIV</h3> +<h2><i>IN SEARCH OF MR. CHARKE'S SKELETON</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>On the whole, however, I was unspeakably relieved. Dudley +Ruthyn, Esq., and Mrs. D. Ruthyn, were now skimming the blue +waves on the wings of the <i>Seamew</i>, and every morning widened +the distance between us, which was to go on increasing until it +measured a point on the antipodes. The Liverpool paper containing +this golden line was carefully preserved in my room; +and like the gentleman who, when much tried by the shrewish +heiress whom he had married, used to retire to his closet and +read over his marriage settlement, I used, when blue devils +haunted me, to unfold my newspaper and read the paragraph +concerning the <i>Seamew</i>.</p> + +<p>The day I now speak of was a dismal one of sleety snow. My +own room seemed to me cheerier than the lonely parlour, where +I could not have had good Mary Quince so decorously.</p> + +<p>A good fire, that kind and trusty face, the peep I had just +indulged in at my favourite paragraph, and the certainty of +soon seeing my dear cousin Monica, and afterwards affectionate +Milly, raised my spirits.</p> + +<p>'So,' said I, 'as old Wyat, you say, is laid up with rheumatism, +and can't turn up to scold me, I think I'll run up stairs and +make an exploration, and find poor Mr. Charke's skeleton in +a closet.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, law, Miss Maud, how can you say such things!' exclaimed +good old Quince, lifting up her honest grey head and +round eyes from her knitting.</p> + +<p>I had grown so familiar with the frightful tradition of Mr. +Charke and his suicide, that I could now afford to frighten old +Quince with him.</p> + +<p>'I am quite serious. I am going to have a ramble up-stairs + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page366" id="page366"></a>[pg 358]</span> + +and down-stairs, like goosey-goosey-gander; and if I do light upon +his chamber, it is all the more interesting. I feel so like Adelaide, +in the "Romance of the Forest," the book I was reading to you +last night, when she commenced her delightful rambles through +the interminable ruined abbey in the forest.'</p> + +<p>'Shall I go with you, Miss?'</p> + +<p>'No, Quince; stay there; keep a good fire, and make some +tea. I suspect I shall lose heart and return very soon;' and with +a shawl about me, cowl fashion, over my head, I stole up-stairs.</p> + +<p>I shall not recount with the particularity of the conscientious +heroine of Mrs. Ann Radcliffe, all the suites of apartments, corridors, +and lobbies, which I threaded in my ramble. It will be +enough to mention that I lighted upon a door at the end of a +long gallery, which, I think, ran parallel with the front of the +house; it interested me because it had the air of having been +very long undisturbed. There were two rusty bolts, which did +not evidently belong to its original securities, and had been, +though very long ago, somewhat clumsily superadded. Dusty and +rusty they were, but I had no difficulty in drawing them back. +There was a rusty key, I remember it well, with a crooked +handle in the lock; I tried to turn it, but could not. My curiosity +was piqued. I was thinking of going back and getting Mary +Quince's assistance. It struck me, however, that possibly it was +not locked, so I pulled the door and it opened quite easily. I +did not find myself in a strangely-furnished suite of apartments, +but at the entrance of a gallery, which diverged at right angles +from that through which I had just passed; it was very imperfectly +lighted, and ended in total darkness.</p> + +<p>I began to think how far I had already come, and to consider +whether I could retrace my steps with accuracy in case of a +panic, and I had serious thoughts of returning.</p> + +<p>The idea of Mr. Charke was growing unpleasantly sharp and +menacing; and as I looked down the long space before me, losing +itself among ambiguous shadows, lulled in a sinister silence, +and as it were inviting my entrance like a trap, I was very near +yielding to the cowardly impulse.</p> + +<p>But I took heart of grace and determined to see a little more. +I opened a side-door, and entered a large room, where were, in +a corner, some rusty and cobwebbed bird-cages, but nothing +more. It was a wainscoted room, but a white mildew stained the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page367" id="page367"></a>[pg 359]</span> + +panels. I looked from the window: it commanded that dismal, +weed-choked quadrangle into which I had once looked from +another window. I opened a door at its farther end, and entered +another chamber, not quite so large, but equally dismal, with +the same prison-like look-out, not very easily discerned through +the grimy panes and the sleet that was falling thickly outside. +The door through which I had entered made a little accidental +creak, and, with my heart at my lips, I gazed at it, expecting to +see Charke, or the skeleton of which I had talked so lightly, stalk +in at the half-open aperture. But I had an odd sort of courage +which was always fighting against my cowardly nerves, and I +walked to the door, and looking up and down the dismal +passage, was reassured.</p> + +<p>Well, one room more—just that whose deep-set door fronted +me, with a melancholy frown, at the opposite end of the chamber. +So to it I glided, shoved it open, advancing one step, and +the great bony figure of Madame de la Rougierre was before me.</p> + +<p>I could see nothing else.</p> + +<p>The drowsy traveller who opens his sheets to slip into bed, and +sees a scorpion coiled between them, may have experienced a +shock the same in kind, but immeasurably less in degree.</p> + +<p>She sat in a clumsy old arm-chair, with an ancient shawl about +her, and her bare feet in a delft tub. She looked a thought more +withered. Her wig shoved back disclosed her bald wrinkled forehead, +and enhanced the ugly effect of her exaggerated features +and the gaunt hollows of her face. With a sense of incredulity +and terror I gazed, freezing, at this evil phantom, who returned +my stare for a few seconds with a shrinking scowl, dismal and +grim, as of an evil spirit detected.</p> + +<p>The meeting, at least then and there, was as complete a surprise +for her as for me. She could not tell how I might take it; +but she quickly rallied, burst into a loud screeching laugh, and, +with her old Walpurgis gaiety, danced some fantastic steps in +her bare wet feet, tracking the floor with water, and holding out +with finger and thumb, in dainty caricature, her slammakin old +skirt, while she sang some of her nasal patois with an abominable +hilarity and emphasis.</p> + +<p>With a gasp, I too recovered from the fascination of the surprise. +I could not speak though for some seconds, and Madame was first.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page368" id="page368"></a>[pg 360]</span> + +<p>'Ah, dear Maud, what surprise! Are we not overjoy, dearest, +and cannot speak? I am full of joy—quite charmed—<i>ravie</i>—of +seeing you. So are you of me, your face betray. Ah! yes, thou +dear little baboon! here is poor Madame once more! Who +could have imagine?'</p> + +<p>'I thought you were in France, Madame,' I said, with a dismal +effort.</p> + +<p>'And so I was, dear Maud; I 'av just arrive. Your uncle Silas +he wrote to the superioress for gouvernante to accompany a +young lady—that is you, Maud—on her journey, and she send +me; and so, ma chère, here is poor Madame arrive to charge +herself of that affair.'</p> + +<p>'How soon do we leave for France, Madame?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'I do not know, but the old women—wat is her name?'</p> + +<p>'Wyat,' I suggested.</p> + +<p>'Oh! oui, Waiatt;—she says two, three week. And who conduct +you to poor Madame's apartment, my dear Maud?' She +inquired insinuatingly.</p> + +<p>'No one, I answered promptly: 'I reached it quite accidentally, +and I can't imagine why you should conceal yourself.' +Something like indignation kindled in my mind as I began to +wonder at the sly strategy which had been practised upon me.</p> + +<p>'I 'av not conceal myself, Mademoiselle,' retorted the governness. +'I 'av act precisally as I 'av been ordered. Your uncle, Mr. +Silas Ruthyn, he is afraid, Waiatt says, to be interrupted by his +creditors, and everything must be done very quaitly. I have been +commanded to avoid <i>me faire voir</i>, you know, and I must obey +my employer—voilà tout!'</p> + +<p>'And for how long have you been residing here?' I persisted, +in the same resentful vein.</p> + +<p>''Bout a week. It is soche triste place! I am so glad to see +you, Maud! I've been so isolée, you dear leetle fool!'</p> + +<p>'You are <i>not</i> glad, Madame; you don't love me—you never +did,' I exclaimed with sudden vehemence.</p> + +<p>'Yes, I am <i>very</i> glad; you know not, chère petite <i>niaise</i>, how +I 'av desire to educate you a leetle more. Let us understand one +another. You think I do not love you, Mademoiselle, because +you have mentioned to your poor papa that little <i>dérèglement</i> +in his library. I have repent very often that so great indiscretion +of my life. I thought to find some letters of Dr. Braierly. I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page369" id="page369"></a>[pg 361]</span> + +think that man was trying to get your property, my dear Maud, +and if I had found something I would tell you all about. But +it was very great <i>sottise</i>, and you were very right to denounce +me to Monsieur. Je n'ai point de rancune contre vous. No, no, +none at all. On the contrary, I shall be your <i>gardienne +tutelaire</i>—wat +you call?—guardian angel—ah, yes, that is it. You think I +speak <i>par dérision</i>; not at all. No, my dear cheaile, I do not +speak <i>par moquerie</i>, unless perhaps the very least degree in the +world.'</p> + +<p>And with these words Madame laughed unpleasantly, showing +the black caverns at the side of her mouth, and with a cold, +steady malignity in her gaze.</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I said; 'I know what you mean, Madame—you <i>hate</i> me.'</p> + +<p>'Oh! wat great ogly word! I am shock! <i>vous me faites honte</i>. +Poor Madame, she never hate any one; she loves all her friends, +and her enemies she leaves to Heaven; while I am, as you see, +more gay, more <i>joyeuse</i> than ever, they have not been 'appy—no, +they have not been fortunate these others. Wen I return, I +find always some of my enemy they 'av die, and some they have +put themselves into embarrassment, or there has arrived to them +some misfortune;' and Madame shrugged and laughed a little +scornfully.</p> + +<p>A kind of horror chilled my rising anger, and I was silent.</p> + +<p>'You see, my dear Maud, it is very natural you should think +I hate you. When I was with Mr. Austin Ruthyn, at Knowl, you +know you did not like a me—never. But in consequence of our +intimacy I confide you that which I 'av of most dear in the +world, my reputation. It is always so. The pupil can <i>calomniate</i>, +without been discover, the gouvernante. 'Av I not been always +kind to you, Maud? Which 'av I use of violence or of sweetness +the most? I am, like other persons, <i>jalouse de ma réputation</i>; +and it was difficult to suffer with patience the banishment +which was invoked by you, because chiefly for your good, and +for an indiscretion to which I was excited by motives the most +pure and laudable. It was you who spied so cleverly—eh! and +denounce me to Monsieur Ruthyn? Helas! wat bad world it is!'</p> + +<p>'I do not mean to speak at all about that occurrence, Madame; +I will not discuss it. I dare say what you tell me of the +cause of your engagement here is true, and I suppose we must + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page370" id="page370"></a>[pg 362]</span> + +travel, as you say, in company; but you must know that the less +we see of each other while in this house the better.'</p> + +<p>'I am not so sure of that, my sweet little <i>béte</i>; your education +has been neglected, or rather entirely abandoned, since you 'av +arrive at this place, I am told. You must not be a <i>bestiole</i>. We +must do, you and I, as we are ordered. Mr. Silas Ruthyn he will +tell us.'</p> + +<p>All this time Madame was pulling on her stockings, getting +her boots on, and otherwise proceeding with her dowdy toilet. +I do not know why I stood there talking to her. We often act +very differently from what we would have done upon reflection. +I had involved myself in a dialogue, as wiser generals than I +have entangled themselves in a general action when they meant +only an affair of outposts. I had grown a little angry, and would +not betray the least symptom of fear, although I felt that sensation +profoundly.</p> + +<p>'My beloved father thought you so unfit a companion for me +that he dismissed you at an hour's notice, and I am very sure +that my uncle will think as he did; you are <i>not</i> a fit companion +for me, and had my uncle known what had passed he would +never have admitted you to this house—never!'</p> + +<p>'Helas! <i>Quelle disgrace</i>! And you really think so, my dear +Maud,' exclaimed Madame, adjusting her wig before her glass, in +the corner of which I could see half of her sly, grinning face, +as she ogled herself in it.</p> + +<p>'I do, and so do you, Madame,' I replied, growing more +frightened.</p> + +<p>'It may be—we shall see; but everyone is not so cruel as you, +<i>ma chère petite calomniatrice</i>.'</p> + +<p>'You shan't call me those names,' I said, in an angry tremor.</p> + +<p>'What name, dearest cheaile?'</p> + +<p>'<i>Calomniatrice</i>—that is an insult.'</p> + +<p>'Why, my most foolish little Maud, we may say rogue, and +a thousand other little words in play which we do not say +seriously.'</p> + +<p>'You are not playing—you never play—you are angry, and you +hate me,' I exclaimed, vehemently.</p> + +<p>'Oh, fie!—wat shame! Do you not perceive, dearest cheaile, +how much education you still need? You are proud, little demoiselle; +you must become, on the contrary, quaite humble. Je + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page371" id="page371"></a>[pg 363]</span> + +ferai baiser le babouin à vous—ha, ha, ha! I weel make a you +to kees the monkey. You are too proud, my dear cheaile.'</p> + +<p>'I am not such a fool as I was at Knowl,' I said; 'you shall +not terrify me here. I will tell my uncle the whole truth,' I +said.</p> + +<p>'Well, it may be that is the best,' she replied, with provoking +coolness.</p> + +<p>'You think I don't mean it?'</p> + +<p>'Of course you <i>do</i>,' she replied.</p> + +<p>'And we shall see what my uncle thinks of it.'</p> + +<p>'We shall see, my dear,' she replied, with an air of mock +contrition.</p> + +<p>'Adieu, Madame!'</p> + +<p>'You are going to Monsieur Ruthyn?—very good!'</p> + +<p>I made her no answer, but more agitated than I cared to show +her, I left the room. I hurried along the twilight passage, and +turned into the long gallery that opened from it at right angles. +I had not gone half-a-dozen steps on my return when I heard a +heavy tread and a rustling behind me.</p> + +<p>'I am ready, my dear; I weel accompany you,' said the smirking +phantom, hurrying after me.</p> + +<p>'Very well,' was my reply; and threading our way, with a few +hesitations and mistakes, we reached and descended the stairs, +and in a minute more stood at my uncle's door.</p> + +<p>My uncle looked hard and strangely at us as we entered. He +looked, indeed, as if his temper was violently excited, and glared +and muttered to himself for a few seconds; and treating Madame +to a stare of disgust, he asked peevishly—</p> + +<p>'Why am I disturbed, pray?'</p> + +<p>'Miss Maud a Ruthyn, she weel explain,' replied Madame, +with a great courtesy, like a boat going down in a ground swell.</p> + +<p>'<i>Will</i> you explain, my dear?' he asked, in his coldest and +most sarcastic tone.</p> + +<p>I was agitated, and I am sure my statement was confused. I +succeeded, however, in saying what I wanted.</p> + +<p>'Why, Madame, this is a grave charge! Do you admit it, +pray?'</p> + +<p>Madame, with the coolest possible effrontery, denied it all; +with the most solemn asseverations, and with streaming eyes +and clasped hands, conjured me melodramatically to withdraw + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page372" id="page372"></a>[pg 364]</span> + +that intolerable story, and to do her justice. I stared at her for +a while astounded, and turning suddenly to my uncle, as vehemently +asserted the truth of every syllable I had related.</p> + +<p>'You hear, my dear child, you hear her deny everything; what +am I to think? You must excuse the bewilderment of my old +head. Madame de la—that lady has arrived excellently recommended +by the superioress of the place where dear Milly awaits +you, and such persons are particular. It strikes me, my dear niece, +that you must have made a mistake.'</p> + +<p>I protested here. But he went on without seeming to hear +the parenthesis—</p> + +<p>'I know, my dear Maud, that you are quite incapable of wilfully +deceiving anyone; but you are liable to be deceived like +other young people. You were, no doubt, very nervous, and but +half awake when you fancied you saw the occurrence you describe; +and Madame de—de—'</p> + +<p>'De la Rougierre,' I supplied.</p> + +<p>'Yes, thank you—Madame de la Rougierre, who has arrived +with excellent testimonials, strenuously denies the whole thing. +Here is a conflict, my dear—in my mind a presumption of mistake. +I confess I should prefer that theory to a peremptory assumption +of guilt.'</p> + +<p>I felt incredulous and amazed; it seemed as if a dream were +being enacted before me. A transaction of the most serious import, +which I had witnessed with my own eyes, and described +with unexceptionable minuteness and consistency, is discredited +by that strange and suspicious old man with an imbecile coolness. +It was quite in vain my reiterating my statement, backing it +with the most earnest asseverations. I was beating the air. It did +not seem to reach his mind. It was all received with a simper of +feeble incredulity.</p> + +<p>He patted and smoothed my head—he laughed gently, and +shook his while I insisted; and Madame protested her purity in +now tranquil floods of innocent tears, and murmured mild and +melancholy prayers for my enlightenment and reformation. I +felt as if I should lose my reason.</p> + +<p>'There now, dear Maud, we have heard enough; it is, I do +believe, a delusion. Madame de la Rougierre will be your companion, +at the utmost, for three or four weeks. Do exercise a +little of your self-command and good sense—you know how I am + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page373" id="page373"></a>[pg 365]</span> + +tortured. Do not, I entreat, add to my perplexities. You may +make yourself very happy with Madame if you will, I have no +doubt.'</p> + +<p>'I propose to Mademoiselle,' said Madame, drying her eyes +with a gentle alacrity, 'to profit of my visit for her education. +But she does not seem to weesh wat I think is so useful.'</p> + +<p>'She threatened me with some horrid French vulgarism—<i>de +faire baiser le babouin à moi</i>, whatever that means; and I +know she hates me,' I replied, impetuously.</p> + +<p>'Doucement—doucement!' said my uncle, with a smile at +once amused and compassionate. 'Doucement! ma chère.'</p> + +<p>With great hands and cunning eyes uplifted, Madame tearfully—for +her tears came on short notice—again protested her +absolute innocence. She had never in all her life so much as +heard one so villain phrase.</p> + +<p>'You see, my dear, you have misheard; young people never +attend. You will do well to take advantage of Madame's short +residence to get up your French a little, and the more you are +with her the better.'</p> + +<p>'I understand then, Mr. Ruthyn, you weesh I should resume +my instructions?' asked Madame.</p> + +<p>'Certainly; and converse all you can in French with Mademoiselle +Maud. You will be glad, my dear, that I've insisted on +it,' he said, turning to me, 'when you have reached France, +where you will find they speak nothing else. And now, dear +Maud—no, not a word more—you must leave me. Farewell, Madame!'</p> + +<p>And he waved us out a little impatiently; and I, without one +look toward Madame de la Rougierre, stunned and incensed, +walked into my room and shut the door.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page374" id="page374"></a>[pg 366]</span> + +<a name="chap55"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LV</h3> +<h2><i>THE FOOT OF HERCULES</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>I stood at the window—still the same leaden sky and feathery +sleet before me—trying to estimate the magnitude of the discovery +I had just made. Gradually a kind of despair seized me, and I +threw myself passionately on my bed, weeping aloud.</p> + +<p>Good Mary Quince was, of course, beside me in a moment, +with her pale, concerned face.</p> + +<p>'Oh, Mary, Mary, she's come—that dreadful woman, Madame +de la Rougierre, has come to be my governess again; and Uncle +Silas won't hear or believe anything about her. It is vain +talking; he is prepossessed. Was ever so unfortunate a creature +as I? Who could have fancied or feared such a thing? Oh, +Mary, Mary, what am I to do? what is to become of me? Am I +never to shake off that vindictive, terrible woman?'</p> + +<p>Mary said all she could to console me. I was making too much +of her. What was she, after all, more than a governess?—she could +not hurt me. I was not a child no longer—she could not bully me +now; and my uncle, though he might be deceived for a while, +would not be long finding her out.</p> + +<p>Thus and soforth did good Mary Quince declaim, and at +last she did impress me a little, and I began to think that I had, +perhaps, been making too much of Madame's visit. But still +imagination, that instrument and mirror of prophecy, showed +her formidable image always on its surface, with a terrible moving +background of shadows.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes there was a knock at my door, and Madame +herself entered. She was in walking costume. There had been a +brief clearing of the weather, and she proposed our making a +promenade together.</p> + +<p>On seeing Mary Quince she broke into a rapture of compliment +and greeting, and took what Mr. Richardson would have + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page375" id="page375"></a>[pg 367]</span> + +called her passive hand, and pressed it with wonderful tenderness.</p> + +<p>Honest Mary suffered all this somewhat reluctantly, never +smiling, and, on the contrary, looking rather ruefully at her +feet.</p> + +<p>'Weel you make a some tea? When I come back, dear Mary +Quince, I 'av so much to tell you and dear Miss Maud of all +my adventures while I 'av been away; it will make a you laugh +ever so much. I was—what you theenk?—near, ever so near to be +married!' And upon this she broke into a screeching laugh, and +shook Mary Quince merrily by the shoulder.</p> + +<p>I sullenly declined going out, or rising; and when she had +gone away, I told Mary that I should confine myself to my room +while Madame stayed.</p> + +<p>But self-denying ordinances self-imposed are not always long +observed by youth. Madame de la Rougierre laid herself out to +be agreeable; she had no end of stories—more than half, no +doubt, pure fictions—to tell, but all, in that triste place, amusing. +Mary Quince began to entertain a better opinion of her. +She actually helped to make beds, and tried to be in every way +of use, and seemed to have quite turned over a new leaf; and so +gradually she moved me, first to listen, and at last to talk.</p> + +<p>On the whole, these terms were better than a perpetual skirmish; but, +notwithstanding all her gossip and friendliness, I +continued to have a profound distrust and even terror of her.</p> + +<p>She seemed curious about the Bartram-Haugh family, and +all their ways, and listened darkly when I spoke. I told her, bit +by bit, the whole story of Dudley, and she used, whenever there +was news of the Seamew, to read the paragraph for my benefit; +and in poor Milly's battered little Atlas she used to trace the +ship's course with a pencil, writing in, from point to point, the +date at which the vessel was 'spoken' at sea. She seemed amused +at the irrepressible satisfaction with which I received these +minutes of his progress; and she used to calculate the distance;—on +such a day he was two hundred and sixty miles, on +such another five hundred; the last point was more than eight +hundred—good, better, best—best of all would be those 'deleecious +antipode, w'ere he would so soon promener on his head +twelve thousand mile away;' and at the conceit she would +fall into screams of laughter.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page376" id="page376"></a>[pg 368]</span> + +<p>Laugh as she might, however, there was substantial comfort +in thinking of the boundless stretch of blue wave that rolled between +me and that villainous cousin.</p> + +<p>I was now on very odd terms with Madame. She had not +relapsed into her favourite vein of oracular sarcasm and menace; +she had, on the contrary, affected her good-humoured and genial +vein. But I was not to be deceived by this. I carried in my +heart that deep-seated fear of her which her unpleasant goodhumour +and gaiety never disturbed for a moment. I was very +glad, therefore, when she went to Todcaster by rail, to make +some purchases for the journey which we were daily expecting to +commence; and happy in the opportunity of a walk, good old +Mary Quince and I set forth for a little ramble.</p> + +<p>As I wished to make some purchases in Feltram, I set out, +with Mary Quince for my companion. On reaching the great gate +we found it locked. The key, however, was in it, and as it required +more than the strength of my hand to turn, Mary tried +it. At the same moment old Crowle came out of the sombre +lodge by its side, swallowing down a mouthful of his dinner in +haste. No one, I believe, liked the long suspicious face of the +old man, seldom shorn or washed, and furrowed with great, +grimy perpendicular wrinkles. Leering fiercely at Mary, not pretending +to see me, he wiped his mouth hurriedly with the back +of his hand, and growled—</p> + +<p>'Drop it.'</p> + +<p>'Open it, please, Mr. Crowle,' said Mary, renouncing the +task.</p> + +<p>Crowle wiped his mouth as before, looking inauspicious; shuffling +to the spot, and muttering to himself, he first satisfied +himself that the lock was fast, and then lodged the key in his +coat-pocket, and still muttering, retraced his steps.</p> + +<p>'We want the gate open, please,' said Mary.</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>'Miss Maud wants to go into the town,' she insisted.</p> + +<p>'We wants many a thing we can't get,' he growled, stepping +into his habitation.</p> + +<p>'Please open the gate,' I said, advancing.</p> + +<p>He half turned on his threshold, and made a dumb show of +touching his hat, although he had none on.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page377" id="page377"></a>[pg 369]</span> + +<p>'Can't, ma'am; without an order from master, no one goes +out here.'</p> + +<p>'You won't allow me and my maid to pass the gate?' I said.</p> + +<p>''Tisn't <i>me</i>, ma'am,' said he; 'but I can't break orders, and no +one goes out without the master allows.'</p> + +<p>And without awaiting further parley, he entered, shutting +his hatch behind him.</p> + +<p>So Mary and I stood, looking very foolish at one another. +This was the first restraint I had experienced since Milly and I +had been refused a passage through the Windmill paling. The +rule, however, on which Crowle insisted I felt confident could +not have been intended to apply to me. A word to Uncle Silas +would set all right; and in the meantime I proposed to Mary +that we should take a walk—my favourite ramble—into the +Windmill Wood.</p> + +<p>I looked toward Dickon's farmstead as we passed, thinking +that Beauty might have been there. I did see the girl, who was +plainly watching us. She stood in the doorway of the cottage, +withdrawn into the shade, and, I fancied, anxious to escape observation. +When we had passed on a little, I was confirmed +in that belief by seeing her run down the footpath which led +from the rear of the farmyard in the direction contrary to that +in which we were moving.</p> + +<p>'So,' I thought, 'poor Meg falls from me!'</p> + +<p>Mary Quince and I rambled on through the wood, till we +reached the windmill itself, and seeing its low arched door open, +we entered the chiaro-oscuro of its circular basement. As we +did so I heard a rush and the creak of a plank, and looking up, +I saw just a foot—no more—disappearing through the trap-door.</p> + +<p>In the case of one we love or fear intensely, what feats of comparative +anatomy will not the mind unconsciously perform? Constructing +the whole living animal from the turn of an elbow, +the curl of a whisker, a segment of a hand. How instantaneous +and unerring is the instinct!</p> + +<p>'Oh, Mary, what have I seen!' I whispered, recovering from +the fascination that held my gaze fast to the topmost rounds of +the ladder, that disappeared in the darkness above the open door +in the loft. 'Come, Mary—come away.'</p> + +<p>At the same instant appeared the swarthy, sullen face of +Dickon Hawkes in the shadow of the aperture. Having but one + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page378" id="page378"></a>[pg 370]</span> + +serviceable leg, his descent was slow and awkward, and having +got his head to the level of the loft he stopped to touch his hat +to me, and to hasp and lock the trap-door.</p> + +<p>When this was done, the man again touched his hat, and +looked steadily and searchingly at me for a second or so, while +he got the key into his pocket.</p> + +<p>'These fellahs stores their flour too long 'ere, ma'am. There's +a deal o' trouble a-looking arter it. I'll talk wi' Silas, and settle +that.'</p> + +<p>By this time he had got upon the worn-tiled floor, and touching +his hat again, he said—</p> + +<p>'I'm a-goin' to lock the door, ma'am!'</p> + +<p>So with a start, and again whispering—</p> + +<p>'Come, Mary—come away'—</p> + +<p>With my arm fast in hers, we made a swift departure.</p> + +<p>'I feel very faint, Mary,' said I. 'Come quickly. +There's nobody following us?'</p> + +<p>'No, Miss, dear. That man with the wooden leg is putting a +padlock on the door.'</p> + +<p>'Come <i>very</i> fast,' I said; and when we had got a little farther, +I said, 'Look again, and see whether anyone is following.'</p> + +<p>'No one, Miss,' answered Mary, plainly surprised. 'He's putting +the key in his pocket, and standin' there a-lookin' after us.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Mary, did not you see it?'</p> + +<p>'What, Miss?' asked Mary, almost stopping.</p> + +<p>'Come on, Mary. Don't pause. They will observe us,' I +whispered, hurrying her forward.</p> + +<p>'What did you see, Miss?' repeated Mary.</p> + +<p>'<i>Mr. Dudley</i>,' I whispered, with a terrified emphasis, not daring +to turn my head as I spoke.</p> + +<p>'Lawk, Miss!' remonstrated honest Quince, with a protracted +intonation of wonder and incredulity, which plainly implied a +suspicion that I was dreaming.</p> + +<p>'Yes, Mary. When we went into that dreadful room—that +dark, round place—I saw his foot on the ladder. <i>His</i> foot, Mary +I can't be mistaken. <i>I won't be questioned</i>. You'll <i>find</i> I'm right. +He's <i>here</i>. He never went in that ship at all. A fraud has been +practised on me—it is infamous—it is terrible. I'm frightened out +of my life. For heaven's sake, look back again, and tell me what +you see.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page379" id="page379"></a>[pg 371]</span> + +<p>'<i>Nothing</i>, Miss,' answered Mary, in contagious whispers, 'but +that wooden-legged chap, standin' hard by the door.'</p> + +<p>'And no one with him?'</p> + +<p>'No one, Miss.'</p> + +<p>We got without pursuit through the gate in the paling. I drew +breath so soon as we had reached the cover of the thicket near +the chestnut hollow, and I began to reflect that whoever the +owner of the foot might be—and I was still instinctively certain +that it was no other than Dudley—concealment was plainly his +object. I need not, then, be at all uneasy lest he should pursue +us.</p> + +<p>As we walked slowly and in silence along the grassy footpath, +I heard a voice calling my name from behind. Mary Quince had +not heard it at all, but I was quite certain.</p> + +<p>It was repeated twice or thrice, and, looking in considerable +doubt and trepidation under the hanging boughs, I saw Beauty, +not ten yards away, standing among the underwood.</p> + +<p>I remember how white the eyes and teeth of the swarthy girl +looked, as with hand uplifted toward her ear, she watched us +while, as it seemed, listening for more distant sounds.</p> + +<p>Beauty beckoned eagerly to me, advancing, with looks of great +fear and anxiety, two or three short steps toward me.</p> + +<p>'<i>She</i> baint to come,' said Beauty, under her breath, so soon as +I had nearly reached her, pointing without raising her hand at +Mary Quince.</p> + +<p>'Tell her to sit on the ash-tree stump down yonder, and call +ye as loud as she can if she sees any fellah a-comin' this way, an' +rin ye back to me;' and she impatiently beckoned me away on +her errand.</p> + +<p>When I returned, having made this dispositions, I perceived +how pale the girl was.</p> + +<p>'Are you ill, Meg?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Never ye mind. Well enough. Listen, Miss; I must tell it +all in a crack, an' if she calls, rin awa' to her, and le' me to myself, +for if fayther or t'other un wor to kotch me here, I think +they'd kill me a'most. Hish!'</p> + +<p>She paused a second, looking askance, in the direction where +she fancied Mary Quince was. Then she resumed in a whisper—</p> + +<p>'Now, lass, mind ye, ye'll keep what I say to yourself. You're + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page380" id="page380"></a>[pg 372]</span> + +not to tell that un nor any other for your life, mind, a word o' +what I'm goin' to tell ye.'</p> + +<p>'I'll not say a word. Go on.'</p> + +<p>'Did ye see Dudley?'</p> + +<p>'I think I saw him getting up the ladder.'</p> + +<p>'In the mill? Ha! that's him. He never went beyond Todcaster. +He staid in Feltram after.'</p> + +<p>It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was +established.</p> + +<a name="chap56"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LVI</h3> +<h2><i>I CONSPIRE</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>'That's a bad un, he is—oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It's nout that's +good as keeps him an' fayther—(mind, lass, ye promised you +would not tell no one)—as keeps them two a-talkin' and a-smokin' +secret-like together in the mill. An' fayther don't know I +found him out. They don't let me into the town, but Brice tells +me, and he knows it's Dudley; and it's nout that's good, but +summat very bad. An' I reckon, Miss, it's all about you. Be ye +frightened, Miss Maud?'</p> + +<p>I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.</p> + +<p>'Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven's sake. Does Uncle Silas +know he is here?'</p> + +<p>'Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven +o'clock to nigh one o' Tuesday night, an' went in and come out +like thieves, 'feard ye'd see 'em.'</p> + +<p>'And how does Brice know anything bad?' I asked, with a +strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head +and down again—I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.</p> + +<p>'Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin' and lookin' awful +black, and says he to fayther, "'Tisn't in my line nohow, an' I +can't;" and says fayther to he, "No one likes they soart o' + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page381" id="page381"></a>[pg 373]</span> + +things, but how can ye help it? The old boy's behind ye wi' +his pitchfork, and ye canna stop." An' wi' that he bethought +him o' Brice, and says he, "What be ye a-doin' there? Get +ye down wi' the nags to blacksmith, do ye." An' oop gits Dudley, +pullin' his hat ower his brows, an' says he, "I wish I was in the +<i>Seamew</i>. I'm good for nout wi' this thing a-hangin' ower me." +An' that's all as Brice heard. An' he's afeard o' fayther and +Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot if he crossed him, +and he and fayther 'ud think nout o' havin' him afore the +justices for poachin', and swearin' him into gaol.'</p> + +<p>'But why does he think it's about <i>me</i>?'</p> + +<p>'Hish!' said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was +quiet. 'I can't say—we're in danger, lass. I don't know why—but +<i>he</i> does, an' so do I, an', for that matter, so do <i>ye</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Meg, I'll leave Bartram.'</p> + +<p>'Ye can't.'</p> + +<p>'Can't. What do you mean, girl?'</p> + +<p>'They won't let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They've dogs—they've +bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye <i>can't</i> git oot, mind; put +that oot o' your head.</p> + +<p>'I tell ye what ye'll do. Write a bit o' a note to the lady +yonder at Elverston; an' though Brice be a wild fellah, and +'appen not ower good sometimes, he likes me, an' I'll make him +take it. Fayther will be grindin' at mill to-morrow. Coom ye +here about one o'clock—that's if ye see the mill-sails a-turnin'—and +me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old lass wi' ye. +There's an old French un, though, that talks wi' Dudley. Mind +ye, that un knows nout o' the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, +whatsoe'er he be wi' others, and I think he won't split. Now, +lass, I must go. God help ye; God bless ye; an', for the world's +wealth, don't ye let one o' them see ye've got ought in your head, +not even that un.'</p> + +<p>Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, +with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.</p> + +<p>I can't at all account for the state in which I was. There are +resources both of energy and endurance in human nature which +we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons +them into play. Petrified with a totally new horror, but +with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the transformation, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page382" id="page382"></a>[pg 374]</span> + +I stood, spoke, and acted—a wonder, almost a terror, +to myself.</p> + +<p>I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I +heard her ugly gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour's +shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, +in a dream.</p> + +<p>But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were +alone, I locked the door. I continued walking up and down the +room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, +the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring despair. I was +afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be +failure, and failure destruction.</p> + +<p>I answered her perplexed solicitudes by telling her that I was +not very well—that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract +from her a promise that she would not hint to mortal, either +my suspicions about Dudley, or our rencontre with Meg Hawkes.</p> + +<p>I remember how, when, after we had got, late at night, into +bed, I sat up, shivering with horror, in mine, while honest Mary's +tranquil breathing told how soundly she slept. I got up, and looked from +the window, expecting to see some of those +wolfish dogs which they had brought to the place prowling +about the court-yard. Sometimes I prayed, and felt tranquillised, +and fancied that I was perhaps to have a short interval of sleep. But the +serenity was delusive, and all the time my +nerves were strung hysterically. Sometimes I felt quite wild, and +on the point of screaming. At length that dreadful night passed +away. Morning came, and a less morbid, though hardly a less +terrible state of mind. Madame paid me an early visit. A thought +struck me. I knew that she loved shopping, and I said, quite +carelessly—</p> + +<p>'Your yesterday's shopping tempts me, Madame, and I must +get a few things before we leave for France. Suppose we go into +Feltram to-day, and make my purchases, you and I?'</p> + +<p>She looked from the corner of her cunning eye in my face +without answering. I did not blench, and she said—</p> + +<p>'Vary good. I would be vary 'appy,' and again she looked +oddly at me.</p> + +<p>'Wat hour, my dear Maud? One o'clock? I think that weel +de very well, eh?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page383" id="page383"></a>[pg 375]</span> + +<p>I assented, and she grew silent.</p> + +<p>I wonder whether I did look as careless as I tried. I do not +know. Through the whole of this awful period I was, I think, +supernatural; and I even now look back with wonder upon my +strange self-command.</p> + +<p>Madame, I hoped, had heard nothing of the order which prohibited +my exit from the place. She would herself conduct me to +Feltram, and secure, by accompanying me, my free egress.</p> + +<p>Once in Feltram, I would assert my freedom, and manage to +reach my dear cousin Knollys. Back to Bartram no power should +convey me. My heart swelled and fluttered in the awful suspense +of that hour.</p> + +<p>Oh, Bartram-Haugh! how came you by those lofty walls? +Which of my ancestors had begirt me with an impassable barrier +in this horrible strait?</p> + +<p>Suddenly I remembered my letter to Lady Knollys. If I were +disappointed in effecting my escape through Feltram, all would +depend upon it.</p> + +<p>Having locked my door, I wrote as follows:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'Oh, my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in <i>your</i> +hour of fear, aid me now. Dudley has returned, and is secreted +somewhere about the grounds. It is a <i>fraud</i>. They all pretend +to me that he is gone away in the <i>Seamew</i>; and he or they had +his name published as one of the passengers. Madame de la +Rougierre has appeared! She is here, and my uncle insists on +making her my close companion. I am at my wits' ends. I cannot +escape—the walls are a prison; and I believe the eyes of +my gaolers are always upon me. Dogs are kept for pursuit—yes, +<i>dogs</i>! and the gates are locked against my escape. God help me! +I don't know where to look, or whom to trust. I fear my uncle +more than all. I think I could bear this better if I knew what +their plans are, even the worst. If ever you loved or pitied me, +dear cousin, I conjure you, help me in this extremity. Take me +away from this. Oh, darling, for God's sake take me away!</p> + +<p class="closer">'Your distracted and terrified cousin,</p> + +<p class="signature">M<small>AUD</small>'</p> + +<p><span class="smalltext">'Bartram-Haugh</span>.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page384" id="page384"></a>[pg 376]</span> + +<p>I sealed this letter jealously, as if the inanimate missive would +burst its cerements, and proclaim my desperate appeal through +all the chambers and passages of silent Bartram.</p> + +<p>Old Quince, greatly to cousin Monica's amusement, persisted +in furnishing me with those capacious pockets which belonged +to a former generation. I was glad of this old-world eccentricity +now, and placed my guilty letter, that, amidst all my hypocrisies, +spoke out with terrible frankness, deep in this receptacle, and +having hid away the pen and ink, my accomplices, I opened the +door, and resumed my careless looks, awaiting Madame's return.</p> + +<p>'I was to demand to Mr. Ruthyn the permission to go to +Feltram, and I think he will allow. He want to speak to you.'</p> + +<p>With Madame I entered my uncle's room. He was reclining on +a sofa, his back towards us, and his long white hair, as fine as +spun glass, hung over the back of the couch.</p> + +<p>'I was going to ask you, dear Maud, to execute two or three +little commissions for me in Feltram.'</p> + +<p>My dreadful letter felt lighter in my pocket, and my heart +beat violently.</p> + +<p>'But I have just recollected that this is a market-day, and +Feltram will be full of doubtful characters and tipsy persons, +so we must wait till to-morrow; and Madame says, very kindly, +that she will, as she does not so much mind, make any little +purchases to-day which cannot conveniently wait.'</p> + +<p>Madame assented with a courtesy to Uncle Silas, and a great +hollow smile to me.</p> + +<p>By this time Uncle Silas had raised himself from his reclining +posture, and was sitting, gaunt and white, upon the sofa.</p> + +<p>'News of my prodigal to-day,' he said, with a peevish smile, +drawing the newspaper towards him. 'The vessel has been +spoken again. How many miles away, do you suppose?'</p> + +<p>He spoke in a plaintive key, looking at me, with hungry eyes, +and a horribly smiling countenance.</p> + +<p>'How far do you suppose Dudley is to-day?' and he laid the +palm of his hand on the paragraph as he spoke. <i>Guess</i>!'</p> + +<p>For a moment I fancied this was a theatric preparation to give +point to the disclosure of Dudley's real whereabouts.</p> + +<p>'It was a very long way. Guess!' he repeated.</p> + +<p>So, stammering a little and pale, I performed the required +hypocrisy, after which my uncle read aloud for my benefit the + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page385" id="page385"></a>[pg 377]</span> + +line or two in which were recorded the event, and the latitude +and longitude of the vessel at the time, of which Madame made +a note in her memory, for the purpose of making her usual +tracing in poor Milly's Atlas.</p> + +<p>I cannot say how it really was, but I fancied that Uncle Silas +was all the time reading my countenance, with a grim and practised +scrutiny; but nothing came of it, and we were dismissed.</p> + +<p>Madame loved shopping, even for its own sake, but shopping +with opportunities of peculation still more. She had had her +luncheon, and was dressed for the excursion, she did precisely +what I now most desired—she proposed to take charge of my +commissions and my money; and thus entrusted, left me at +liberty to keep tryst at the Chestnut Hollow.</p> + +<p>So soon as I had seen Madame fairly off, I hurried Mary +Quince, and got my things on quickly. We left the house by +the side entrance, which I knew my uncle's windows did not +command. Glad was I to feel a slight breeze, enough to make +the mill-sails revolve; and as we got further into the grounds, +and obtained a distant view of the picturesque old windmill, +I felt inexpressibly relieved on seeing that it was actually working.</p> + +<p>We were now in the Chestnut Hollow, and I sent Mary +Quince to her old point of observation, which commanded a +view of the path in the direction of the Windmill Wood, with +her former order to call 'I've found it,' as loudly as she could, +in case she should see anyone approaching.</p> + +<p>I stopped at the point of our yesterday's meeting. I peered +under the branches, and my heart beat fast as I saw Meg +Hawkes awaiting me.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page386" id="page386"></a>[pg 378]</span> + +<a name="chap57"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LVII</h3> +<h2><i>THE LETTER</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>'Come away, lass,' whispered Beauty, very pale; 'he's here—Tom Brice.'</p> + +<p>And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood, +and we reached Tom. The slender youth, groom or poacher—he +might answer for either—with his short coat and gaitered +legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bough, with his shoulder +against the trunk.</p> + +<p>'<i>Don't</i> ye mind; sit ye still, lad,' said Meg, observing that he +was preparing to rise, and had entangled his hat in the boughs. +'Sit ye still, and hark to the lady. He'll take it, Miss Maud, if +he can; wi' na ye, lad?'</p> + +<p>'E'es, I'll take it,' he replied, holding out his hand.</p> + +<p>'Tom Brice, you won't deceive me?'</p> + +<p>'Noa, sure,' said Tom and Meg nearly in the same breath.</p> + +<p>'You are an honest English lad, Tom—you would not betray +me?' I was speaking imploringly.</p> + +<p>'Noa, sure,' repeated Tom.</p> + +<p>There was something a little unsatisfactory in the countenance +of this light-haired youth, with the sharpish upturned nose. +Throughout our interview he said next to nothing, and smiled +lazily to himself, like a man listening to a child's solemn nonsense, +and leading it on, with an amused irony, from one wise +sally to another.</p> + +<p>Thus it seemed to me that this young clown, without in the +least intending to be offensive, was listening to me with a profound +and lazy mockery.</p> + +<p>I could not choose, however; and, such as he was, I must +employ him or none.</p> + +<p>'Now, Tom Brice, a great deal depends on this.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page387" id="page387"></a>[pg 379]</span> + +<p>'That's true for her, Tom Brice,' said Meg, who now and then +confirmed my asseverations.</p> + +<p>'I'll give you a pound <i>now</i>, Tom,' and I placed the coin and +the letter together in his hand. 'And you are to give this letter +to Lady Knollys, at Elverston; you know Elverston, don't you?'</p> + +<p>'He does, Miss. Don't ye, lad?'</p> + +<p>'E'es.'</p> + +<p>'Well, do so, Tom, and I'll be good to you so long as I live.'</p> + +<p>'D'ye hear, lad?'</p> + +<p>'E'es,' said Tom; 'it's very good.'</p> + +<p>'You'll take the letter, Tom?' I said, in much greater trepidation as to +his answer than I showed.</p> + +<p>'E'es, I'll take the letter,' said he, rising, and turning it about +in his fingers under his eye, like a curiosity.</p> + +<p>'Tom Brice,' I said, 'If you can't be true to me, say so; but +don't take the letter except to give it to Lady Knollys, at Elverston. If +you won't promise that, let me have the note back. +Keep the pound; but tell me that you won't mention my having +asked you to carry a letter to Elverston to anyone.'</p> + +<p>For the first time Tom looked perfectly serious. He twiddled +the corner of my letter between his finger and thumb, and wore +very much the countenance of a poacher about to be committed.</p> + +<p>'I don't want to chouce ye, Miss; but I must take care o' myself, +ye see. The letters goes all through Silas's fingers to the +post, and he'd know damn well this worn't among 'em. They do +say he opens 'em, and reads 'em before they go; an' that's his +diversion. I don't know; but I do believe that's how it be; an' +if this one turned up, they'd all know it went be hand, and I'd +be spotted for't.'</p> + +<p>'But you know who I am, Tom, and I'd save you,' said I, +eagerly.</p> + +<p>'Ye'd want savin' yerself, I'm thinkin', if that feel oot,' said +Tom, cynically. 'I don't say, though, I'll not take it—only this—I +won't run my head again a wall for no one.'</p> + +<p>'Tom,' I said, with a sudden inspiration, 'give me back the +letter, and take me out of Bartram; take me to Elverston; it +will be the best thing—for <i>you</i>, Tom, I mean—it will indeed—that +ever befell you.'</p> + +<p>With this clown I was pleading, as for my life; my hand was +on his sleeve. I was gazing imploringly in his face.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page388" id="page388"></a>[pg 380]</span> + +<p>But it would not do; Tom Brice looked amused again, swung +his head a little on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the +roots of the trees beside him, as if he were striving +to keep himself from an uncivil fit of laughter.</p> + +<p>'I'll do what a wise lad may, Miss; but ye don't know they +lads; they bain't that easy come over; and I won't get knocked +on the head, nor sent to gaol 'appen, for no good to thee nor me. +There's Meg there, she knows well enough I could na' manage +that; so I won't try it, Miss, by no chance; no offence, Miss; +but I'd rayther not, an' I'll just try what I can make o'this; +that's all I can do for ye.'</p> + +<p>Tom Brice, with these words, stood up, and looked uneasily +in the direction of the Windmill Wood.</p> + +<p>'Mind ye, Miss, coom what will, ye'll not tell o' me?'</p> + +<p>'Whar 'ill ye go now, Tom?' inquired Meg, uneasily.</p> + +<p>'Never ye mind, lass,' answered he, breaking his way through +the thicket, and soon disappearing.</p> + +<p>'E'es that 'ill be it—he'll git into the sheepwalk behind the +mound. They're all down yonder; git ye back, Miss, to the hoose—be +the side-door; mind ye, don't go round the corner; and +I'll jest sit awhile among the bushes, and wait a good time for +a start. And good-bye, Miss; and don't ye show like as if there +was aught out o' common on your mind. Hish!'</p> + +<p>There was a distant hallooing.</p> + +<p>'That be fayther!' she whispered, with a very blank countenance, +and listened with her sunburnt hand to her ear.</p> + +<p>'Tisn't me, only Davy he'll be callin',' she said, with a great +sigh, and a joyless smile. 'Now git ye away i' God's name.'</p> + +<p>So running lightly along the path, under cover of this thick +wood, I recalled Mary Quince, and together we hastened back +again to the house, and entered, as directed, by the side-door, +which did not expose us to be seen from the Windmill Wood, +and, like two criminals, we stole up by the backstairs, and so +through the side-gallery to my room; and there sat down to collect +my wits, and try to estimate the exact effect of what had +just occurred.</p> + +<p>Madame had not returned. That was well; she always visited +my room first, and everything was precisely as I had left it—a +certain sign that her prying eyes and busy fingers had not been +at work during my absence.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page389" id="page389"></a>[pg 381]</span> + +<p>When she did appear, strange to say, it was to bring me unexpected comfort. +She had in her hand a letter from my dear Lady +Knollys—a gleam of sunlight from the free and happy outer +world entered with it. The moment Madame left me to myself, +I opened it and read as follows:—</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>'I am so happy, my dearest Maud, in the immediate prospect +of seeing you. I have had a really kind letter from poor Silas—<i>poor</i> +I say, for I really compassionate his situation, about +which he has been, I do believe, quite frank—at least Ilbury +says so, and somehow he happens to know. I have had quite an +affecting, changed letter. I will tell you all when I see you. He +wants me ultimately to undertake that which would afford me +the most unmixed happiness—I mean the care of you, my dear +girl. I only fear lest my too eager acceptance of the trust should +excite that vein of opposition which is in most human beings, +and induce him to think over his offer less favourably again. +He says I must come to Bartram, and stay a night, and promises +to lodge me comfortably; about which last I honestly do not +care a pin, when the chance of a comfortable evening's gossip +with you is in view. Silas explains his sad situation, and must +hold himself in readiness for early flight, if he would avoid +the risk of losing his personal liberty. It is a sad thing that he +should have so irretrievably ruined himself, that poor Austin's +liberality seems to have positively precipitated his extremity. +His great anxiety is that I should see you before you leave for +your short stay in France. He thinks you must leave before a +fortnight. I am thinking of asking you to come over here; I +know you would be just as well at Elverston as in France; but +perhaps, as he seems disposed to do what we all wish, it may +be safer to let him set about it in his own way. The truth is, +I have so set my heart upon it that I fear to risk it by crossing +him even in a trifle. He says I must fix an early day next week, +and talks as if he meant to urge me to make a longer visit than +he defined. I shall be only too happy. I begin, my dear Maud, to +think that there is no use in trying to control events, and that +things often turn out best, and most exactly to our wishes, by +being left quite to themselves. I think it was Talleyrand who +praised the talent of <i>waiting</i> so much. In high spirits, and with + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page390" id="page390"></a>[pg 382]</span> + +my head brimful of plans, I remain, dearest Maud, ever your +affectionate cousin,</p> + +<p class="signature">M<small>ONICA</small>.'</p> + +<p>Here was an inexplicable puzzle! A faint radiance of hope, +however, began to overspread a landscape only a few minutes +before darkened by total eclipse; but construct what theory I +might, all were inconsistent with many well-established and +awful incongruities, and their wrecks lay strown over the troubled +waters of the gulf into which I gazed.</p> + +<p>Why was Madame here? Why was Dudley concealed about +the place? Why was I a prisoner within the walls? What were +those dangers which Meg Hawkes seemed to think so great and +so imminent as to induce her to risk her lover's safety for my +deliverance? All these menacing facts stood grouped together +against the dark certainty that never were men more deeply interested in +making away with one human being, than were Uncle +Silas and Dudley in removing me.</p> + +<p>Sometimes to these dreadful evidences I abandoned my soul. +Sometimes, reading Cousin Monica's sunny letter, the sky would +clear, and my terrors melt away like nightmares in the morning. +I never repented, however, that I had sent my letter by Tom +Brice. Escape from Bartram-Haugh was my hourly longing.</p> + +<p>That evening Madame invited herself to tea with me. I did +not object. It was better just then to be on friendly relations +with everybody, if possible, even on their own terms. She was in +one of her boisterous and hilarious moods, and there was a perfume +of brandy.</p> + +<p>She narrated some compliments paid her that morning in Feltram +by that 'good crayature' Mrs. Litheways, the silk-mercer, +and what ''ansom faylow' was her new foreman—(she intended +plainly that I should 'queez' her)—and how 'he follow' her +with his eyes wherever she went. I thought, perhaps, he fancied +she might pocket some of his lace or gloves. And all the time +her great wicked eyes were rolling and glancing according to her +ideas of fascination, and her bony face grinning and flaming +with the 'strong drink' in which she delighted. She sang twaddling +chansons, and being, as was her wont under such exhilarating influences, in +a vapouring mood, she vowed that I should have my carriage and horses immediately.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page391" id="page391"></a>[pg 383]</span> + +<p>'I weel try what I can do weeth your Uncle Silas. We are +very good old friends, Mr. Ruthyn and I,' she said with a leer +which I did not understand, and which yet frightened me.</p> + +<p>I never could quite understand why these Jezebels like to insinuate the +dreadful truth against themselves; but they do. Is +it the spirit of feminine triumph overcoming feminine shame, +and making them vaunt their fall as an evidence of bygone fascination and +existing power? Need we wonder? Have not women +preferred hatred to indifference, and the reputation of witchcraft, with +all its penalties, to absolute insignificance? Thus, +as they enjoyed the fear inspired among simple neighbours by +their imagined traffic with the father of ill, did Madame, I +think, relish with a cynical vainglory the suspicion of her satanic +superiority.</p> + +<p>Next morning Uncle Silas sent for me. He was seated at his +table, and spoke his little French greeting, smiling as usual, +pointing to a chair opposite.</p> + +<p>'How far, I forget,' he said, carelessly laying his newspaper on +the table, 'did you yesterday guess Dudley to be?'</p> + +<p>'Eleven hundred miles I thought it was.'</p> + +<p>'Oh yes, so it was;' and then there was an abstracted pause. +'I have been writing to Lord Ilbury, your trustee,' he resumed. +'I ventured to say, my dear Maud—(for having thoughts of a +different arrangement for you, more suitable under my distressing +circumstances, I do not wish to vacate without some expression of +your estimate of my treatment of you while under my +roof)—I ventured to say that you thought me kind, considerate, +indulgent,—may I say so?'</p> + +<p>I assented. What could I say?</p> + +<p>'I said you had enjoyed our poor way of living here—our +rough ways and liberty. Was I right?'</p> + +<p>Again I assented.</p> + +<p>'And, in fact, that you had nothing to object against your +poor old uncle, except indeed his poverty, which you forgave. I +think I said truth. Did I, dear Maud?'</p> + +<p>Again I acquiesced.</p> + +<p>All this time he was fumbling among the papers in his coatpocket.</p> + +<p>'That is satisfactory. So I expected you to say,' he murmured. +'I expected no less.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page392" id="page392"></a>[pg 384]</span> + +<p>On a sudden a frightful change spread across his face. He +rose like a spectre with a white scowl.</p> + +<p>'Then how do you account for that?' he shrieked in a voice +of thunder, and smiting my open letter to Lady Knollys, face upward, upon +the table.</p> + +<p>I stared at my uncle, unable to speak, until I seemed to lose +sight of him; but his voice, like a bell, still yelled in my ears.</p> + +<p>'There! young hypocrite and liar! explain that farrago of +slander which you bribed my servant to place in the hands of my +kinswoman, Lady Knollys.'</p> + +<p>And so on and on it went, I gazing into darkness, until the +voice itself became indistinct, grew into a buzz, and hummed +away into silence.</p> + +<p>I think I must have had a fit.</p> + +<p>When I came to myself I was drenched with water, my hair, +face, neck, and dress. I did not in the least know where I was. I +thought my father was ill, and spoke to him. Uncle Silas was +standing near the window, looking unspeakably grim. Madame +was seated beside me, and an open bottle of ether, one of Uncle +Silas's restoratives, on the table before me.</p> + +<p>'Who's that—who's ill—is anyone dead?' I cried.</p> + +<p>At last I was relieved by long paroxysms of weeping. When I +was sufficiently recovered, I was conveyed into my own room.</p> + +<a name="chap58"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LVIII</h3> +<h2><i>LADY KNOLLYS' CARRIAGE</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>Next morning—it was Sunday—I lay on my bed in my dressing-gown, +dull, apathetic, with all my limbs sore, and, as I thought, +rheumatic, and feeling so ill that I did not care to speak or lift +my head. My recollection of what had passed in Uncle Silas's +room was utterly confused, and it seemed to me as if my poor +father had been there and taken a share—I could not remember +how—in the conference.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page393" id="page393"></a>[pg 385]</span> + +<p>I was too exhausted and stupid to clear up this horrible +muddle, and merely lay with my face toward the wall, motionless +and silent, except for a great sigh every now and then.</p> + +<p>Good Mary Quince was in the room—there was some comfort +in that; but I felt quite worn out, and had rather she did not +speak to me; and indeed for the time I felt absolutely indifferent +as to whether I lived or died.</p> + +<p>Cousin Monica this morning, at pleasant Elverston, all-unconscious +of my sad plight, proposed to Lady Mary Carysbroke and +Lord Ilbury, her guests, to drive over to church at Feltram, +and then pay us a visit at Bartram-Haugh, to which they readily +agreed.</p> + +<p>Accordingly, at about two o'clock, this pleasant party of +three arrived at Bartram. They walked, having left the carriage to +follow when the horses were fed; and Madame de la Rougierre, +who was in my uncle's room when little Giblets arrived to say +that the party were in the parlour, whispered for a little with +my uncle, who then said—</p> + +<p>'Miss Maud Ruthyn has gone out to drive, but I shall be +happy to see Lady Knollys here, if she will do me the favour +to come up-stairs and see me for a few moments; and you can +mention that I am very far from well.'</p> + +<p>Madame followed him out upon the lobby, and added, holding +him by the collar, and whispering earnestly in his ear—</p> + +<p>'Bring hair ladysheep up by the backstairs—mind, the <i>back</i>stairs.'</p> + +<p>And the next moment Madame entered my room, with long +tiptoe steps, and looking, Mary Quince said, as if she were going +to be hanged.</p> + +<p>On entering she looked sharply round, and being satisfied of +Mary Quince's presence, she turned the key in the door, and +made some affectionate enquiries about me in a whisper; and +then she stole to the window and peeped out, standing back +some way; after which she came to my bedside, murmured some +tender sentences, drew the curtain a little, and making some +little fidgety adjustments about the room; among the rest she took +the key from the lock, quietly, and put it into her pocket.</p> + +<p>This was so odd a procedure that honest Mary Quince rose +stoutly from her chair, pointing to the lock, with her frank +little blue eyes fixed on Madame, and she whispered—'Won't + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page394" id="page394"></a>[pg 386]</span> + +you put the key in the lock, please?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, certainly, Mary Queence; but it is better it shall be +locked, for I think her uncle he is coming to see her, and I +am sure she would be very much frightened, for he is very much +displease, don't you see? and we can tell him she is not well +enough, or asleep, and so he weel go away again, without any +trouble.'</p> + +<p>I heard nothing of this, which was conducted in close whispers; +and Mary, although she did not give Madame credit for +caring whether I was frightened or not, and suspected her motives +in everything, acquiesced grudgingly, fearing lest her alleged +reason might possibly be the true one.</p> + +<p>So Madame hovered about the door, uneasily; and of what +went on elsewhere during that period Lady Knollys afterwards +gave me the following account:—</p> + +<p>'We were very much disappointed; but of course I was glad +to see Silas, and your little hobgoblin butler led me up-stairs to +his room a different way, I think, from that I came before; but +I don't know the house of Bartram well enough to speak positively. +I only know that I was conducted quite across his bedroom, +which I had not seen on my former visit, and so into +his sitting-room, where I found him.</p> + +<p>'He seemed very glad to see me, came forward smiling—I disliked +his smile always—with both hands out, and shook mine +with more warmth than I ever remembered in his greeting before, +and said—</p> + +<p>'"My dear, <i>dear</i> Monica, how <i>very</i> good of you—the very +person I longed to see! I have been miserably ill, the sad consequence +of still more miserable anxiety. Sit down, pray, for a +moment."</p> + +<p>'And he paid me some nice little French compliment in +verse.</p> + +<p>'"And where is Maud?" said I.</p> + +<p>'"I think Maud is by this time about halfway to Elverston," +said the old gentleman. "I persuaded her to take a drive, and +advised a call there, which seemed to please her, so I conjecture +she obeyed."</p> + +<p>'"How <i>very</i> provoking!" cried I.</p> + +<p>'"My poor Maud will be sadly disappointed, but you will +console her by a visit—you have promised to come, and I shall + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page395" id="page395"></a>[pg 387]</span> + +try to make you comfortable. I shall be happier, Monica, with +this proof of our perfect reconciliation. You won't deny me?"</p> + +<p>'"Certainly not. I am only too glad to come," said I; "and +I want to thank you, Silas."</p> + +<p>'"For what?" said he.</p> + +<p>'"For wishing to place Maud in my care. I am very much +obliged to you."</p> + +<p>'"I did not suggest it, I must say, Monica, with the least +intention of obliging <i>you</i>," said Silas.</p> + +<p>'I thought he was going to break into one of his ungracious +moods.</p> + +<p>'"But I <i>am</i> obliged to you—very much obliged to you, Silas; +and you sha'n't refuse my thanks."</p> + +<p>'"I am happy, at all events, Monica, in having won your +good-will; we learn at last that in the affections only are our +capacities for happiness; and how true is St. Paul's preference +of love—the principle that abideth! The affections, dear Monica, +are eternal; and being so, celestial, divine, and consequently +happy, deriving happiness, and bestowing it."</p> + +<p>'I was always impatient of his or anybody else's metaphysics; +but I controlled myself, and only said, with my customary impudence—</p> + +<p>'"Well, dear Silas, and when do you wish me to come?"</p> + +<p>'"The earlier the better," said he.</p> + +<p>'"Lady Mary and Ilbury will be leaving me on Tuesday +morning. I can come to you in the afternoon, if you think +Tuesday a good day."</p> + +<p>'"Thank you, dear Monica. I shall be, I trust, enlightened +by that day as to my enemies' plans. It is a humiliating confession, +Monica, but I am past feeling that. It is quite possible +that an execution may be sent into this house to-morrow, and +an end of all my schemes. It is not likely, however—hardly +possible—before three weeks, my attorney tells me. I shall hear from +him to-morrow morning, and then I shall ask you to name a +very early day. If we are to have an unmolested fortnight certain, +you shall hear, and name your own day."</p> + +<p>'Then he asked me who had accompanied me, and lamented +ever so much his not being able to go down to receive them; +and he offered luncheon, with a sort of Ravenswood smile, and +a shrug, and I declined, telling him that we had but a few + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page396" id="page396"></a>[pg 388]</span> + +minutes, and that my companions were walking in the grounds +near the house.</p> + +<p>'I asked whether Maud was likely to return soon?</p> + +<p>'"Certainly not before five o'clock." He thought we should +probably meet her on our way back to Elverston; but could not +be certain, as she might have changed her plans.</p> + +<p>'So then came—no more remaining to be said—a very +affectionate parting. I believe all about his legal dangers was strictly +true. How he could, unless that horrid woman had deceived +him, with so serene a countenance tell me all those gross untruths +about Maud, I can only admire.'</p> + +<p>In the meantime, as I lay in my bed, Madame, gliding hither +and thither, whispering sometimes, listening at others, +I suddenly startled them both by saying—</p> + +<p>'Whose carriage?'</p> + +<p>'What carriage, dear?' inquired Quince, whose ears were not +so sharp as mine.</p> + +<p>Madame peeped from the window.</p> + +<p>''Tis the physician, Doctor Jolks. He is come to see your +uncle, my dear,' said Madame.</p> + +<p>'But I hear a female voice,' I said, sitting up.</p> + +<p>'No, my dear; there is only the doctor,' said Madame. 'He +is come to your uncle. I tell you he is getting out of his +carriage,' and she affected to watch the doctor's descent.</p> + +<p>'The carriage is driving away!' I cried.</p> + +<p>'Yes, it is draiving away,' she echoed.</p> + +<p>But I had sprung from my bed, and was looking over her +shoulder, before she perceived me.</p> + +<p>'It is Lady Knollys!' I screamed, seizing the window-frame +to force it up, and, vainly struggling to open it, I cried—</p> + +<p>'I'm here, Cousin Monica. For God's sake, Cousin Monica—Cousin +Monica!'</p> + +<p>'You are mad, Meess—go back,' screamed Madame, exerting +her superior strength to force me back.</p> + +<p>But I saw deliverance and escape gliding away from my reach, +and, strung to unnatural force by desperation, I pushed past her, +and beat the window wildly with my hands, screaming—</p> + +<p>'Save me—save me! Here, here, Monica, here! Cousin, cousin, +oh! save me!'</p> + +<p>Madame had seized my wrists, and a wild struggle was going + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page397" id="page397"></a>[pg 389]</span> + +on. A window-pane was broken, and I was shrieking to stop the +carriage. The Frenchwoman looked black and haggard as a +fury, as if she could have murdered me.</p> + +<p>Nothing daunted—frantic—I screamed in my despair, seeing +the carriage drive swiftly away—seeing Cousin Monica's bonnet, +as she sat chatting with her <i>vis-à-vis</i>.</p> + +<p>'Oh, oh, oh!' I shrieked, in vain and prolonged agony, as +Madame, exerting her strength and matching her fury against +my despair, forced me back in spite of my wild struggles, and +pushed me sitting on the bed, where she held me fast, glaring +in my face, and chuckling and panting over me.</p> + +<p>I think I felt something of the despair of a lost spirit.</p> + +<p>I remember the face of poor Mary Quince—its horror, its +wonder—as she stood gaping into my face, over Madame's +shoulder, and crying—</p> + +<p>'What is it, Miss Maud? What is it, dear?' And turning +fiercely on Madame, and striving to force her grasp from my +wrists, 'Are you hurting the child? Let her go—let her go.'</p> + +<p>'I <i>weel</i> let her go. Wat old fool are you, Mary Queence! She +is mad, I think. She 'as lost hair head.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Mary, cry from the window. Stop the carriage!' I cried.</p> + +<p>Mary looked out, but there was by this time, of course, nothing +in sight.</p> + +<p>'Why don't a you stop the carriage?' sneered Madame. 'Call +a the coachman and the postilion. W'ere is the footman? Bah! +<i>elle a le cerveau mal timbré</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Mary, Mary, is it gone—is it gone? Is there nothing +there?' cried I, rushing to the window; and turning to Madame, +after a vain straining of my eyes, my face against the +glass—</p> + +<p>'Oh, cruel, cruel, wicked woman! why have you done this? +What was it to you? Why do you persecute me? What good +<i>can</i> you gain by my ruin?'</p> + +<p>'Rueen! Par bleu! ma chère, you talk too fast. Did not a you +see it, Mary Queence? It was the doctor's carriage, and Mrs. +Jolks, and that eempudent faylow, young Jolks, staring up to +the window, and Mademoiselle she come in soche shocking +déshabille to show herself knocking at the window. 'Twould be +very nice thing, Mary Queence, don't you think?'</p> + +<p>I was sitting now on the bedside, crying in mere despair. I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page398" id="page398"></a>[pg 390]</span> + +did not care to dispute or to resist. Oh! why had rescue come so +near, only to prove that it could not reach me? So I went on crying, +with a clasping of my hands and turning up of my eyes, in +incoherent prayer. I was not thinking of Madame, or of Mary +Quince, or any other person, only babbling my anguish and despair +helplessly in the ear of heaven.</p> + +<p>'I did not think there was soche fool. Wat <i>enfant gaté</i>! My +dear cheaile, wat a can you <i>mean</i> by soche strange language and +conduct? Wat for should a you weesh to display yourself in the +window in soche 'orrible déshabille to the people in the doctor's +coach?'</p> + +<p>'It was <i>Cousin Knollys</i>—Cousin Knollys. Oh, Cousin Knollys! +You're gone—you're gone—you're <i>gone</i>!'</p> + +<p>'And if it was Lady Knollys' coach, there was certainly a +coachman and a footman; and whoever has the coach there +was young gentlemen in it. If it was Lady Knollys' carriage it +would 'av been <i>worse</i> than the doctor.'</p> + +<p>'It is no matter—it is all over. Oh, Cousin Monica, your poor +Maud—where is she to turn? Is there no help?'</p> + +<p>That evening Madame visited me again, in one of her sedate +and moral moods. She found me dejected and passive, as she had +left me.</p> + +<p>'I think, Maud, there is news; but I am not certain.'</p> + +<p>I raised my head and looked at her wistfully.</p> + +<p>'I think there is letter of <i>bad</i> news from the attorney in +London.'</p> + +<p>'Oh!' I said, in a tone which I am sure implied the absolute +indifference of dejection.</p> + +<p>'But, my dear Maud, if't be so, we shall go at once, you and +me, to join Meess Millicent in France. La belle France! You +weel like so moche! We shall be so gay. You cannot imagine +there are such naice girl there. They all love a me so moche, +you will be delight.'</p> + +<p>'How soon do we go?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'I do not know. Bote I was to bring in a case of eau de +cologne that came this evening, and he laid down a letter and +say:—"The blow has descended, Madame! My niece must hold +herself in readiness." I said, "For what, Monsieur?" <i>twice</i>; +bote he did not answer. I am sure it is <i>un procès</i>. They 'av ruin +him. Eh bien, my dear. I suppose we shall leave this triste place + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page399" id="page399"></a>[pg 391]</span> + +immediately. I am so rejoice. It appears to me <i>un cimetière</i>!'</p> + +<p>'Yes, I should like to leave it,' I said, sitting up, with a great +sigh and sunken eyes. It seemed to me that I had quite lost all +sense of resentment towards Madame. A debility of feeling had +supervened—the fatigue, I suppose, and prostration of the passions.</p> + +<p>'I weel make excuse to go into his room again,' said Madame; +'and I weel endeavor to learn something more from him, and +I weel come back again to you in half an hour.'</p> + +<p>She departed. But in half an hour did not return. I had a dull +longing to leave Bartram-Haugh. For me, since the departure of +poor Milly, it had grown like the haunt of evil spirits, and to +escape on any terms from it was a blessing unspeakable.</p> + +<p>Another half-hour passed, and another, and I grew insufferably +feverish. I sent Mary Quince to the lobby to try and see +Madame, who, I feared, was probably to-ing and fro-ing in and +out of Uncle Silas's room.</p> + +<p>Mary returned to tell me that she had seen old Wyat, who +told her that she thought Madame had gone to her bed half an +hour before.</p> + +<a name="chap59"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h2>CHAPTER LIX</h2> +<h3><i>A SUDDEN DEPARTURE</i></h3> +<p> </p> + +<p>'Mary,' said I, 'I am miserably anxious to hear what Madame +may have to tell; she knows the state I am in, and she would +not like so much trouble as to look in at my door to say a word. +Did you hear what she told me?'</p> + +<p>'No, Miss Maud,' she answered, rising and drawing near.</p> + +<p>'She thinks we are going to France immediately, and to leave +this place perhaps for ever.'</p> + +<p>'Heaven be praised for that, if it be so, Miss!' said Mary, +with more energy than was common with her, 'for there is no + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page400" id="page400"></a>[pg 392]</span> + +luck about it, and I don't expect to see you ever well or happy +in it.'</p> + +<p>'You must take your candle, Mary, and make out her room, +up-stairs; I found it accidentally myself one evening.'</p> + +<p>'But Wyat won't let us up-stairs.'</p> + +<p>'Don't mind her, Mary; I tell you to go. You must try. I +can't sleep till we hear.'</p> + +<p>'What direction is her room in, Miss?' asked Mary.</p> + +<p>'Somewhere in <i>that</i> direction, Mary,' I answered, pointing. +'I cannot describe the turns; but I think you will find it if you +go along the great passage to your left, on getting to the top +of the stairs, till you come to the cross-galleries, and then turn +to your left; and when you have passed four or perhaps five +doors, you must be very near it, and I am sure she will hear if +you call.'</p> + +<p>'But will she tell me—she <i>is</i> such a rum un, Miss?' suggested +Mary.</p> + +<p>'Tell her exactly what I have said to you, and when she +learns that you already know as much as I do, she may—unless, +indeed, she wishes to torture me. If she won't, perhaps at least +you can persuade her to come to me for a moment. Try, dear +Mary; we can but fail.'</p> + +<p>'Will you be very lonely, Miss, while I am away?' asked +Mary, uneasily, as she lighted her candle.</p> + +<p>'I can't help it, Mary. Go. I think if I heard we were going, +I could almost get up and dance and sing. I can't bear this +dreadful uncertainty any longer.'</p> + +<p>'If old Wyat is outside, I'll come back and wait here a bit, +till she's out o' the way,' said Mary; 'and, anyhow, I'll make +all the haste I can. The drops and the sal-volatile is here, Miss, +by your hand.'</p> + +<p>And with an anxious look at me, she made her exit, softly, +and did not immediately return, by which I concluded that +she had found the way clear, and had gained the upper story +without interruption.</p> + +<p>This little anxiety ended, its subsidence was followed by a +sense of loneliness, and with it, of vague insecurity, which +increased at last to such a pitch, that I wondered at my own +madness in sending my companion away; and at last my terrors so +grew, that I drew back into the farthest corner of the bed, with + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page401" id="page401"></a>[pg 393]</span> + +my shoulders to the wall, and my bed-clothes huddled about me, +with only a point open to peep at.</p> + +<p>At last the door opened gently.</p> + +<p>'Who's there?' I cried, in extremity of horror, expecting +I knew not whom.</p> + +<p>'Me, Miss,' whispered Mary Quince, to my unutterable relief; +and with her candle flared, and a wild and pallid face, Mary +Quince glided into the room, locking the door as she entered.</p> + +<p>I do not know how it was, but I found myself holding Mary +fast with both my hands as we stood side by side on the floor.</p> + +<p>'Mary, you are terrified; for God's sake, what is the matter?' +I cried.</p> + +<p>'No, Miss,' said Mary, faintly, 'not much.'</p> + +<p>'I see it in your face. What is it?'</p> + +<p>'Let me sit down, Miss. I'll tell you what I saw; only I'm +just a bit queerish.'</p> + +<p>Mary sat down by my bed.</p> + +<p>'Get in, Miss; you'll take cold. Get into bed, and I'll tell you. +It is not much.'</p> + +<p>I did get into bed, and gazing on Mary's frightened face, I +felt a corresponding horror.</p> + +<p>'For mercy's sake, Mary, say what it is?'</p> + +<p>So again assuring me 'it was not much,' she gave me in a +somewhat diffuse and tangled narrative the following facts:—</p> + +<p>On closing my door, she raised her candle above her head and +surveyed the lobby, and seeing no one there she ascended the +stairs swiftly. She passed along the great gallery to the left, +and paused a moment at the cross gallery, and then recollected +my directions clearly, and followed the passage to the right.</p> + +<p>There are doors at each side, and she had forgotten to ask me +at which Madame's was. She opened several. In one room she +was frightened by a bat, which had very nearly put her candle +out. She went on a little, paused, and began to lose heart in the +dismal solitude, when on a sudden, a few doors farther on, she +thought she heard Madame's voice.</p> + +<p>She said that she knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, +and hearing Madame still talking within, she opened it.</p> + +<p>There was a candle on the chimneypiece, and another in a +stable lantern near the window. Madame was conversing volubly +on the hearth, with her face toward the window, the entire + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page402" id="page402"></a>[pg 394]</span> + +frame of which had been taken from its place: Dickon Hawkes, +the Zamiel of the wooden leg, was supporting it with one hand, +as it leaned imperfectly against the angle of the recess. There +was a third figure standing, buttoned up in a surtout, with a +bundle of tools under his arm, like a glazier, and, with a silent +thrill of fear, she distinctly recognised the features as those of +Dudley Ruthyn.</p> + +<p>''Twas him, Miss, so sure as I sit here! Well, like that, they +were as mute as mice; three pairs of eyes were on me. I don't +know what made me so study like, but som'at told me I should +not make as though I knew any but Madame; and so I made +a courtesy, as well as I could, and I said, "Might I speak a +word wi' ye, please, on the lobby?"</p> + +<p>'Mr. Dudley was making belief be this time to look out +at window, wi' his back to me, and I kept looking straight on +Madame, and she said, "They're mendin' my broken glass, +Mary," walking between them and me, and coming close up +to me very quick; and so she marched me backward out o' +the door, prating all the time.</p> + +<p>'When we were on the lobby, she took my candle from my +hand, shutting the door behind her, and she held the light a bit +behind her ear; so'twas full on my face, as she looked sharp +into it; and, after a bit, she said again, in her queer lingo—there +was two panes broke in her room, and men sent for to +mend it.</p> + +<p>'I was awful frightened when I saw Mr. Dudley, for I could +not believe any such thing before, and I don't know how I +could look her in the face as I did and not show it. I was as +smooth and cool as yonder chimneypiece, and she has an awful +evil eye to stan' against; but I never flinched, and I think +she's puzzled, for as cunning as she is, whether I believe all she +said, or knowed 'twas a pack o' stories. So I told her your +message, and she said she had not heard another word since; but +she did believe we had not many more days here, and would tell +you if she heard to-night, when she brought his soup to your +uncle, in half an hour's time.'</p> + +<p>I asked her, as soon as I could speak, whether she was perfectly +certain as to the fact that the man in the surtout was +Dudley, and she made answer—</p> + +<p>'I'd swear to him on that Bible, Miss.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page403" id="page403"></a>[pg 395]</span> + +<p>So far from any longer wishing Madame's return that night, I +trembled at the idea of it. Who could tell who might enter the +room with her when the door opened to admit her?</p> + +<p>Dudley, so soon as he recovered the surprise, had turned +about, evidently anxious to prevent recognition; Dickon Hawkes +stood glowering at her. Both might have hope of escaping +recognition in the imperfect light, for the candle on the +chimneypiece was flaring in the air, and the light from the +lantern fell in spots, and was confusing.</p> + +<p>What could that ruffian, Hawkes, be doing in the house? Why +was Dudley there? Could a more ominous combination be +imagined? I puzzled my distracted head over all Mary Quince's +details, but could make nothing of their occupation. I know of +nothing so terrifying as this kind of perpetual puzzling over +ominous problems.</p> + +<p>You may imagine how the long hours of that night passed, +and how my heart beat at every fancied sound outside my door.</p> + +<p>But morning came, and with its light some reassurance. Early, +Madame de la Rougierre made her appearance; she searched my +eyes darkly and shrewdly, but made no allusion to Mary Quince's +visit. Perhaps she expected some question from me, and, hearing +none, thought it as well to leave the subject at rest.</p> + +<p>She had merely come in to say that she had heard nothing +since, but was now going to make my uncle's chocolate; and +that so soon as her interview was ended she would see me again, +and let me hear anything she should have gleaned.</p> + +<p>In a little while a knock came to my door, and Mary Quince +was ordered by old Wyat into my uncle's room. She returned +flushed, in a huge fuss, to say that I was to be up and dressed +for a journey in half an hour, and to go straight, when dressed, +to my uncle's room.</p> + +<p>It was good news; at the same time it was a shock. I was glad. +I was stunned. I jumped out of bed, and set about my toilet with +an energy quite new to me. Good Mary Quince was busily +packing my boxes, and consulting as to what I should take with +me, and what not.</p> + +<p>Was Mary Quince to accompany me? He had not said a word +on that point; and I feared from his silence she was to remain. +There was comfort, however, in this—that the separation would +not be for long; I felt confident of that; and I was about to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page404" id="page404"></a>[pg 396]</span> + +join Milly, whom I loved better than I could have believed +before our separation; but whatsoever the conditions might be, +it was an indescribable relief to have done with Bartram-Haugh, +and leave behind me its sinister lines of circumvallation, its +haunted recesses, and the awful spectres that had lately appeared +within its walls.</p> + +<p>I stood too much in awe of my uncle to fail in presenting myself +punctually at the close of the half-hour. I entered his sitting-room +under the shadow of sour old Wyat's high-cauled cap; she +closed the door behind me, and the conference commenced.</p> + +<p>Madame de la Rougierre sat there, dressed and draped for a +journey, and with a thick black lace veil on. My uncle rose, +gaunt and venerable, and with a harsh and severe countenance. +He did not offer his hand; he made me a kind of bow, more of +repulsion than of respect. He remained in a standing position, +supporting his crooked frame by his hand, which he leaned on +a despatch-box; he glared on me steadily with his wild phosphoric +eyes, from under the dark brows I have described to you, +now corrugated in lines indescribably stern.</p> + +<p>'You shall join my daughter at the Pension, in France; +Madame de la Rougierre shall accompany you,' said my uncle, +delivering his directions with the stern monotony and the +measured pauses of a person dictating an important despatch +to a secretary.' Old Mrs. Quince shall follow with me, or, if alone, +in a week. You shall pass to-night in London; to-morrow night +you proceed thence to Dover, and cross by the mail-packet. +You shall now sit down and write a letter to your cousin Monica +Knollys, which I will first read and then despatch. Tomorrow +you shall write a note to Lady Knollys, from <i>London</i>, telling +her how you have got over so much of your journey, and that +you cannot write from Dover, as you must instantly start by the +packet on reaching it; and that until my affairs are a little +settled, you cannot write to her from France, as it is of high +importance to my safety that no clue should exist as to our address. +Intelligence, however, shall reach her through my attorneys, +Archer and Sleigh, and I trust we shall soon return. You +will, please, submit that latter note to Madame de la Rougierre, +who has my directions to see that it contains no <i>libels</i> upon +my character. Now, sit down.'</p> + +<p>So, with those unpleasant words tingling in my ears, I obeyed.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page405" id="page405"></a>[pg 397]</span> + +<p>'<i>Write</i>,' said he, when I was duly placed. 'You shall convey +the substance of what I say in your own language. The immiment +danger this morning announced of an execution—remember +the word,' and he spelled it for me—'being put into this +house either this afternoon or to-morrow, compels me to anticipate +my plans, and despatch you for France this day. That you +are starting with an attendant.' Here an uneasy movement +from Madame, whose dignity was perhaps excited. 'An +<i>attendant</i>,' he repeated, with a discordant emphasis; 'and you can, +if you please—but I don't <i>solicit</i> that justice—say +that you have been as kindly treated here as my unfortunate circumstances +would permit. That is all. You have just fifteen minutes to +write. Begin.'</p> + +<p>I wrote accordingly. My hysterical state had made me far less +combative than I might have proved some months since, for +there was much that was insulting as well as formidable in his +manner. I completed my letter, however, to his satisfaction in +the prescribed time; and he said, as he laid it and its envelope +on the table—</p> + +<p>'Please to remember that this lady is not your attendant only, +but that she has authority to direct every detail respecting your +journey, and will make all the necessary payments on the way. +You will please, then, implicitly to comply with her directions. +The carriage awaits you at the hall-door.'</p> + +<p>Having thus spoken, with another grim bow, and 'I wish you +a safe and pleasant journey,' he receded a step or two, and I, +with an undefinable kind of melancholy, though also with a +sense of relief, withdrew.</p> + +<p>My letter, I afterwards found, reached Lady Knollys, accompanied +by one from Uncle Silas, who said—'Dear Maud apprises +me that she has written to tell you something of our movements. +A sudden crisis in my miserable affairs compels a break-up as +sudden here. Maud joins my daughter at the Pension, in France. +I purposely omit the address, because I mean to reside in its +vicinity until this storm shall have blown over; and as the +consequences of some of my unhappy entanglements might pursue +me even there, I must only for the present spare you the pain +and trouble of keeping a secret. I am sure that for some little +time you will excuse the girl's silence; in the meantime you +shall hear of them, and perhaps circuitously, from me. Our dear + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page406" id="page406"></a>[pg 398]</span> + +Maud started this morning <i>en route</i> for her destination, very +sorry, as am I, that she could not enjoy first a flying visit to +Elverston, but in high spirits, notwithstanding, at the new life +and sights before her.'</p> + +<p>At the door my beloved old friend, Mary Quince, awaited me.</p> + +<p>'Am I going with you, Miss Maud?'</p> + +<p>I burst into tears and clasped her in my arms.</p> + +<p>'I'm not,' said Mary, very sorrowfully; 'and I never was +from you yet, Miss, since you wasn't the length of my arm.'</p> + +<p>And kind old Mary began to cry with me.</p> + +<p>'Bote you are coming in a few days, Mary Quince,' expostulated +Madame. 'I wonder you are soche fool. What is two, three +days? Bah! nonsense, girl.'</p> + +<p>Another farewell to poor Mary Quince, quite bewildered at +the suddenness of her bereavement. A serious and tremulous +bow from our little old butler on the steps. Madame bawling +through the open window to the driver to make good speed, and +remember that we had but nineteen minutes to reach the station. +Away we went. Old Crowle's iron <i>grille</i> rolled back before +us. I looked on the receding landscape, the giant trees—the +palatial, time-stained mansion. A strange conflict of feelings, +sweet and bitter, rose and mingled in the reverie. Had I been +too hard and suspicious with the inhabitants of that old house +of my family? Was my uncle <i>justly</i> indignant? Was I ever +again to know such pleasant rambles as some of those I had +enjoyed with dear Millicent through the wild and beautiful +woodlands I was leaving behind me? And there, with my +latest glimpse of the front of Bartram-Haugh, I beheld dear +old Mary Quince gazing after us. Again my tears flowed. I waved +my handkerchief from the window; and now the park-wall hid +all from view, and at a great pace, through the steep wooded +glen, with the rocky and precipitous character of a ravine, we +glided; and when the road next emerged, Bartram-Haugh was +a misty mass of forest and chimneys, slope and hollow, and we +within a few minutes of the station.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page407" id="page407"></a>[pg 399]</span> + +<a name="chap60"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LX</h3> +<h2><i>THE JOURNEY</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>Waiting for the train, as we stood upon the platform, I looked +back again toward the wooded uplands of Bartram; and far behind, +the fine range of mountains, azure and soft in the distance, +beyond which lay beloved old Knowl, and my lost father and +mother, and the scenes of my childhood, never embittered except +by the sibyl who sat beside me.</p> + +<p>Under happier circumstances I should have been, at my then +early age, quite wild with pleasurable excitement on entering +London for the first time. But black Care sat by me, with her +pale hand in mine: a voice of fear and warning, whose words I +could not catch, was always in my ear. We drove through London, +amid the glare of lamps, toward the West-end, and for a +little while the sense of novelty and curiosity overcame my +despondency, and I peeped eagerly from the window; while +Madame, who was in high good-humour, spite of the fatigues +of our long railway flight, screeched scraps of topographic +information in my ear; for London was a picture-book in which +she was well read.</p> + +<p>'That is Euston Square, my dear—Russell Square. Here is +Oxford Street—Haymarket. See, there is the Opera House—Hair +Majesty's Theatre. See all the carriages waiting;' and so on, till +we reached at length a little narrow street, which she told me +was off Piccadilly, where we drew up before a private house, +as it seemed to me—a family hotel—and I was glad to be at rest +for the night.</p> + +<p>Fatigued with the peculiar fatigue of railway travelling, dusty, +a little chilly, with eyes aching and wearied, I ascended the +stairs silently, our garrulous and bustling landlady leading the +way, and telling her oft-told story of the house, its noble owner +in old time, and how those fine drawing-rooms were taken every + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page408" id="page408"></a>[pg 400]</span> + +year during the Session by the Bishop of Rochet-on-Copeley, and +at last into our double-bedded room.</p> + +<p>I would fain have been alone, but I was too tired and dejected +to care very much for anything.</p> + +<p>At tea, Madame expanded in spirit, like a giant refreshed, +and chattered and sang; and at last, seeing that I was nodding, +advised my going to bed, while she ran across the street to see +'her dear old friend, Mademoiselle St. Eloi, who was sure to be +up, and would be offended if she failed to make her ever so +short a call.'</p> + +<p>I cared little what she said, and was glad to be rid of her even +for a short time, and was soon fast asleep.</p> + +<p>I saw her, I know not how much later, poking about the +room, like a figure in a dream, and taking off her things.</p> + +<p>She had her breakfast in bed next morning, and I was, to my +comfort, left to take mine in solitary possession of our sitting-room; +where I began to wonder how little annoyance I had as +yet suffered from her company, and began to speculate upon the +chances of my making the journey with tolerable comfort.</p> + +<p>Our hostess gave me five minutes of her valuable time. Her +talk ran chiefly upon nuns and convents, and her old acquaintance with +Madame; and it seemed to me that she had at one +time driven a kind of trade, no doubt profitable enough, in +escorting young ladies to establishments on the Continent; and +although I did not then quite understand the tone in which +she spoke to me, I often thought afterwards that Madame had +represented me as a young person destined for the holy vocation +of the veil.</p> + +<p>When she was gone, I sat listlessly looking out of the window, +and saw some chance equipages drive by, and now and then a +fashionable pedestrian; and wondered if this quiet thoroughfare +could really be one of the arteries so near the heart of the +tumultuous capital.</p> + +<p>I think my nervous vitality must have burnt very low just +then, for I felt perfectly indifferent about all the novelty and +world of wonders beyond, and should have hated to leave the +dull tranquillity of my window for an excursion through the +splendours of the unseen streets and palaces that surrounded me.</p> + +<p>It was one o'clock before Madame joined me; and finding me + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page409" id="page409"></a>[pg 401]</span> + +in this dull mood, she did not press me to accompany her in +her drive, no doubt well pleased to be rid of me.</p> + +<p>After tea that evening, as we sat alone in our room, she +entertained me with some very odd conversation—at the time +unintelligible—but which acquired a tolerably distinct meaning from +the events that followed.</p> + +<p>Two or three times that day Madame appeared to me on the +point of saying something of grave import, as she scanned me +with her bleak wicked stare.</p> + +<p>It was a peculiarity of hers, that whenever she was pressed +upon by an anxiety that really troubled her, her countenance +did not look sad or solicitous, as other people's would, but +simply wicked. Her great gaunt mouth was compressed and +drawn down firmly at the corners, and her eyes glared with a +dismal scowl.</p> + +<p>At last she said suddenly—</p> + +<p>'Are you ever grateful, Maud?'</p> + +<p>'I hope so, Madame,' I answered.</p> + +<p>'And how do you show your gratitude? For instance, would +a you do great deal for a person who would run <i>risque</i> for your +sake?'</p> + +<p>It struck me all at once that she was sounding me about poor +Meg Hawkes, whose fidelity, notwithstanding the treason or +cowardice of her lover, Tom Brice, I never doubted; and I grew +at once wary and reserved.</p> + +<p>'I know of no opportunity, thank Heaven, for any such service, +Madame. How can anyone serve me at present, by themselves +incurring danger? What do you mean?'</p> + +<p>'Do you like, for example, to go to that French Pension? +Would you not like better some other arrangement?'</p> + +<p>'Of course there are other arrangements I should like better; +but I see no use in talking of them; they are not to be,' I +answered.</p> + +<p>'What other arrangements do you mean, my dear cheaile?' +enquired Madame. 'You mean, I suppose, you would like better +to go to Lady Knollys?'</p> + +<p>'My uncle does not choose it at present; and except with his +consent nothing can be done!'</p> + +<p>'He weel never consent, dear cheaile.'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page410" id="page410"></a>[pg 402]</span> + +<p>'But he <i>has</i> consented—not immediately indeed, but in a +short time, when his affairs are settled.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Lanternes</i>! They will never be settle,' said Madame.</p> + +<p>'At all events, for the present I am to go to France. Milly +seems very happy, and I dare say I shall like it too. I am very +glad to leave Bartram-Haugh, at all events.'</p> + +<p>'But your uncle weel bring you back there,' said Madame, +drily.</p> + +<p>'It is doubtful whether he will ever return to Bartram himself,' +I said.</p> + +<p>'Ah!' said Madame, with a long-drawn nasal intonation, 'you +theenk I hate you. You are quaite wrong, my dear Maud. I am, +on the contrary, very much interested for you—I am, I assure +you, dear a cheaile.'</p> + +<p>And she laid her great hand, with joints misshapen by old +chilblains, upon the back of mine. I looked up in her face. +She was not smiling. On the contrary, her wide mouth was +drawn down at the corners ruefully, as before, and she gazed on +my face with a scowl from her abysmal eyes.</p> + +<p>I used to think the flare of that irony which lighted her face +so often immeasurably worse than any other expression she +could assume; but this lack-lustre stare and dismal collapse of +feature was more wicked still.</p> + +<p>'Suppose I should bring you to Lady Knollys, and place you +in her charge, what would a you do then for poor Madame?' +said this dark spectre.</p> + +<p>I was inwardly startled at these words. I looked into her +unsearchable face, but could draw thence nothing but fear. Had +she made the same overture only two days since, I think I +would have offered her half my fortune. But circumstances +were altered. I was no longer in the panic of despair. The lesson +I had received from Tom Brice was fresh in my mind, and +my profound distrust of her was uppermost. I saw before me +only a tempter and betrayer, and said—</p> + +<p>'Do you mean to imply, Madame, that my guardian is not +to be trusted, and that I ought to make my escape from him, +and that you are really willing to aid me in doing so?'</p> + +<p>This, you see, was turning the tables upon her. I looked her +steadily in the face as I spoke. She returned my gaze with a + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page411" id="page411"></a>[pg 403]</span> + +strange stare and a gape, which haunted me long after; and +it seemed as we sat in utter silence that each was rather horribly +fascinated by the other's gaze.</p> + +<p>At last she shut her mouth sternly, and eyes me with a more +determined and meaning scowl, and then said in a low tone—</p> + +<p>'I believe, Maud, that you are a cunning and wicked little +thing.'</p> + +<p>'Wisdom is not cunning, Madame; nor is it wicked to ask +your meaning in explicit language,' I replied.</p> + +<p>'And so, you clever cheaile, we two sit here, playing at a game +of chess, over this little table, to decide which shall destroy the +other—is it not so?'</p> + +<p>'I will not allow you to destroy me,' I retorted, with a sudden +flash.</p> + +<p>Madame stood up, and rubbed her mouth with her open +hand. She looked to me like some evil being seen in a dream. I +was frightened.</p> + +<p>'You are going to hurt me!' I ejaculated, scarce knowing +what I said.</p> + +<p>'If I were, you deserve it. You are very <i>malicious</i>, ma chère: +or, it may be, only very stupid.'</p> + +<p>A knock came to the door.</p> + +<p>'Come in,' I cried, with a glad sense of relief.</p> + +<p>A maid entered.</p> + +<p>'A letter, please, 'm,' she said, handing it to me.</p> + +<p>'For <i>me</i>,' snarled Madame, snatching it.</p> + +<p>I had seen my uncle's hand, and the Feltram post-mark.</p> + +<p>Madame broke the seal, and read. It seemed but a word, for +she turned it about after the first momentary glance, and +examined the interior of the envelope, and then returned to the +line she had already read.</p> + +<p>She folded the letter again, drawing her nails in a sharp +pinch along the creases, as she stared in a blank, hesitating +way at me.</p> + +<p>'You are stupid little ingrate, I am employ by Monsieur +Ruthyn, and of course I am faithful to my employer. I do not +want to talk to you. <i>There</i>, you may read that.'</p> + +<p>She jerked the letter before me on the table. It contained but +these words:—</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page412" id="page412"></a>[pg 404]</span> + +<p> </p> + +<p class="place">Bartram-Haugh:</p> + +<p class="date">'<i>30th January, 1845</i>.</p> + +<p>'M<small>Y DEAR</small> M<small>ADAME</small>,</p> + +<p>'Be so good as to take the half-past eight o'clock train to +<u><i>Dover</i></u> to-night. Beds are prepared.—Yours very truly,</p> + +<p class="signature">S<small>ILAS</small> R<small>UTHYN</small>.'</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>I cannot say what it was in this short advice that struck me +with fear. Was it the thick line beneath the word 'Dover,' that +was so uncalled for, and gave me a faint but terrible sense of +something preconcerted?</p> + +<p>I said to Madame—</p> + +<p>'Why is "Dover" underlined?'</p> + +<p>'I do not know, little fool, no more than you. How can I tell +what is passing in your oncle's head when he make that a +mark?'</p> + +<p>'Has it not a meaning, Madame?'</p> + +<p>'How can you talk like that?' she answered, more in her old +way. 'You are either mocking of me, or you are becoming truly +a fool!'</p> + +<p>She rang the bell, called for our bill, saw our hostess; while +I made a few hasty prepartions in my room.</p> + +<p>'You need not look after the trunks—they will follow us all +right. Let us go, cheaile—we 'av half an hour only to reach the +train.'</p> + +<p>No one ever fussed like Madame when occasion offered. There +was a cab at the door, into which she hurried me. I assumed +that she would give all needful directions, and leaned back, very +weary and sleepy already, though it was so early, listening to her +farewell screamed from the cab-step, and seeing her black cloak +flitting and flapping this way and that, like the wings of a raven +disturbed over its prey.</p> + +<p>In she got, and away we drove through a glare of lamps, and +shop-windows, still open; gas everywhere, and cabs, busses, and +carriages, still thundering through the streets. I was too tired +and too depressed to look at those things. Madame, on the contrary, +had her head out of the window till we reached the station.</p> + +<p>'Where are the rest of the boxes?' I asked, as Madame placed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page413" id="page413"></a>[pg 405]</span> +me in charge of her box and my bag in the office of the terminus.</p> + +<p>'They will follow with Boots in another cab, and will come +safe with us in this train. Mind those two, we weel bring in the +carriage with us.'</p> + +<p>So into a carriage we got; in came Madame's box and my +bag; Madame stood at the door, and, I think, frightened away +intending passengers, by her size and shrillness.</p> + +<p>At last the bell rang her into her place, the door clapt, the +whistle sounded, and we were off.</p> + +<a name="chap61"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LXI</h3> +<h2><i>OUR BED-CHAMBER</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>I had passed a miserable night, and, indeed, for many nights had +not had my due proportion of sleep. Still I sometimes fancy that +I may have swallowed something in my tea that helped to make +me so irresistibly drowsy. It was a very dark night—no moon, +and the stars soon hid by the gathering clouds. Madame sat +silent, and ruminating in her place, with her rugs about her. I, +in my corner similarly enveloped, tried to keep awake. Madame +plainly thought I was asleep already, for she stole a leather flask +from her pocket, and applied it to her lips, causing an aroma of +brandy.</p> + +<p>But it was vain struggling against the influence that was +stealing over me, and I was soon in a profound and dreamless +slumber.</p> + +<p>Madame awoke me at last, in a huge fuss. She had got out all +our things and hurried them away to a close carriage which was +awaiting us. It was still dark and starless. We got along the +platform, I half asleep, the porter carrying our rugs, by the glare +of a pair of gas-jets in the wall, and out by a small door at +the end.</p> + +<p>I remember that Madame, contrary to her wont, gave the man + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page414" id="page414"></a>[pg 406]</span> + +some money. By the puzzling light of the carriage-lamps we got +in and took our seats.</p> + +<p>'Go on,' screamed Madame, and drew up the window with a +great chuck; and we were enclosed in darkness and silence, the +most favourable conditions for thought.</p> + +<p>My sleep had not restored me as it might; I felt feverish, +fatigued, and still very drowsy, though unable to sleep as I had +done.</p> + +<p>I dozed by fits and starts, and lay awake, or half-awake, +sometimes, not thinking but in a way imagining what kind of a place +Dover would be; but too tired and listless to ask Madame any +questions, and merely seeing the hedges, grey in the lamplight, +glide backward into darkness, as I leaned back.</p> + +<p>We turned off the main road, at right angles, and drew up.</p> + +<p>'Get down and poosh it, it is open,' screamed Madame from +the window.</p> + +<p>A gate, I suppose, was thus passed; for when we resumed our +brisk trot, Madame bawled across the carriage—</p> + +<p>'We are now in the 'otel grounds.'</p> + +<p>And so all again was darkness and silence, and I fell into +another doze, from which, on waking, I found that we had come to +a standstill, and Madame was standing on the low step of an +open door, paying the driver. She, herself, pulled her box and +the bag in. I was too tired to care what had become of the rest +of our luggage.</p> + +<p>I descended, glancing to the right and left, but there was +nothing visible but a patch of light from the lamps on a paved +ground and on the wall.</p> + +<p>We stepped into the hall or vestibule, and Madame shut the +door, and I thought I heard the key turn in it. We were in total +darkness.</p> + +<p>'Where are the lights, Madame—where are the people?' I +asked, more awake than I had been.</p> + +<p>''Tis pass three o'clock, cheaile, bote there is always light +here.' She was groping at the side; and in a moment more +lighted a lucifer match, and so a bedroom candle.</p> + +<p>We were in a flagged lobby, under an archway at the right, +and at the left of which opened long flagged passages, lost in +darkness; a winding stair, barely wide enough to admit Madame, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page415" id="page415"></a>[pg 407]</span> + +dragging her box, led upward under a doorway, in a corner at the +right.</p> + +<p>'Come, dear cheaile, take your bag; don't mind the rugs, +they are safe enough.'</p> + +<p>'But where are we to go? There is no one!' I said, looking +round in wonder. It certainly was a strange reception at an +hotel.</p> + +<p>'Never mind, my dear cheaile. They know me here, and I +have always the same room ready when I write for it. Follow +me quaitely.'</p> + +<p>So she mounted, carrying the candle. The stair was steep, and +the march long. We halted at the second landing, and entered a +gaunt, grimy passage. All the way up we had not heard a single +sound of life, nor seen a human being, nor so much as passed a +gaslight.</p> + +<p>'Voila! here 'tis, my dear old room. Enter, dearest Maud.'</p> + +<p>And so I did. The room was large and lofty, but shabby and +dismal. There was a tall four-post bed, with its foot beside the +window, hung with dark-green curtains, of some plush or velvet +texture, that looked like a dusty pall. The remaining furniture +was scant and old, and a ravelled square of threadbare carpet +covered a patch of floor at the bedside. The room was grim +and large, and had a cold, vault-like atmosphere, as if long +uninhabited; but there were cinders in the grate and under it. The +imperfect light of our mutton-fat candle made all this look still +more comfortless.</p> + +<p>Madame placed the candle on the chimneypiece, locked the +door, and put the key in her pocket.</p> + +<p>'I always do so in '<i>otel</i>' said she, with a wink at me.</p> + +<p>And, then with a long 'ha!' expressive of fatigue and relief, +she threw herself into a chair.</p> + +<p>'So 'ere we are at last!' said she; 'I'm glad. <i>There's</i> your +bed, Maud. <i>Mine</i> is in the dressing-room.'</p> + +<p>She took the candle, and I went in with her. A shabby press +bed, a chair, and table were all its furniture; it was rather a +closet than a dressing-room, and had no door except that +through which we had entered. So we returned, and very tired, +wondering, I sat down on the side of my bed and yawned.</p> + +<p>'I hope they will call us in time for the packet,' I said.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page416" id="page416"></a>[pg 408]</span> + +<p>'Oh yes, they never fail,' she answered, looking steadfastly on +her box, which she was diligently uncording.</p> + +<p>Uninviting as was my bed, I was longing to lie down in it; +and having made those ablutions which our journey rendered +necessary, I at length lay down, having first religiously stuck my +talismanic pin, with the head of sealing-wax, into the bolster.</p> + +<p>Nothing escaped the restless eye of Madame.</p> + +<p>'Wat is that, dear cheaile?' she enquired, drawing near and +scrutinising the head of the gipsy charm, which showed like a +little ladybird newly lighted on the sheet.</p> + +<p>'Nothing—a charm—folly. Pray, Madame, allow me to go to +sleep.'</p> + +<p>So, with another look and a little twiddle between her finger +and thumb, she seemed satisfied; but, unhappily for me, she did +not seem at all sleepy. She busied herself in unpacking and +displaying over the back of the chair a whole series of London +purchases—silk dresses, a shawl, a sort of lace demi-coiffure then +in vogue, and a variety of other articles.</p> + +<p>The vainest and most slammakin of women—the merest slut +at home, a milliner's lay figure out of doors—she had one square +foot of looking-glass upon the chimneypiece, and therein tried +effects, and conjured up grotesque simpers upon her sinister and +weary face.</p> + +<p>I knew that the sure way to prolong this worry was to express +my uneasiness under it, so I bore it as quietly as I could; +and at last fell fast asleep with the gaunt image of Madame, with +a festoon of grey silk with a cerise stripe, pinched up in her +finger and thumb, and smiling over her shoulder across it into +the little shaving-glass that stood on the chimney.</p> + +<p>I awoke suddenly in the morning, and sat up in my bed, having +for a moment forgotten all about our travelling. A moment +more, however, brought all back again.</p> + +<p>'Are we in time, Madame?'</p> + +<p>'For the packet?' she enquired, with one of her charming +smiles, and cutting a caper on the floor. 'To be sure; you don't +suppose they would forget. We have two hours yet to wait.'</p> + +<p>'Can we see the sea from the window?'</p> + +<p>'No, dearest cheaile; you will see't time enough.'</p> + +<p>'I'd like to get up,' I said.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page417" id="page417"></a>[pg 409]</span> + +<p>'Time enough, my dear Maud; you are fatigued; are you sure +you feel quite well?'</p> + +<p>'Well enough to get up; I should be better, I think, out of +bed.'</p> + +<p>'There is no hurry, you know; you need not even go by the +next packet. Your uncle, he tell me, I may use my discretion.'</p> + +<p>'Is there any water?'</p> + +<p>'They will bring some.'</p> + +<p>'Please, Madame, ring the bell.'</p> + +<p>She pulled it with alacrity. I afterwards learnt that it did not +ring.</p> + +<p>'What has become of my gipsy pin?' I demanded, with an +unaccountable sinking of the heart.</p> + +<p>'Oh! the little pin with the red top? maybe it 'as fall on the +ground; we weel find when you get up.'</p> + +<p>I suspected that she had taken it merely to spite me. It would +have been quite the thing she would have liked. I cannot describe +to you how the loss of this little 'charm' depressed and excited +me. I searched the bed; I turned over all the bed-clothes; +I searched in and outside; at last I gave up.</p> + +<p>'How odious!' I cried; 'somebody has stolen it merely to +vex me.'</p> + +<p>And, like a fool as I was, I threw myself on my face on the bed +and wept, partly in anger, partly in dismay.</p> + +<p>After a time, however, this blew over. I had a hope of recovering +it. If Madame had stolen it, it would turn up yet. But +in the meantime its disappearance troubled me like an omen.</p> + +<p>'I am afraid, my dear cheaile, you are not very well. It is +really very odd you should make such fuss about a pin! Nobody +would believe! Do you not theenk it would be a good plan to +take a your breakfast in your bed?'</p> + +<p>She continued to urge this point for some time. At last, however, +having by this time quite recovered my self-command, and +resolved to preserve ostensibly fair terms with Madame, who +could contribute so essentially to make me wretched during +the rest of my journey, and possibly to prejudice me very +seriously on my arrival, I said quietly—</p> + +<p>'Well, Madame, I know it is very silly; but I had kept that +foolish little pin so long and so carefully, that I had grown +quite fond of it; but I suppose it is lost, and I must content myself, + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page418" id="page418"></a>[pg 410]</span> + +though I cannot laugh as you do. So I will get up now, and +dress.'</p> + +<p>'I think you will do well to get all the repose you can,' answered +Madame; 'but as you please,' she added, observing that +I was getting up.</p> + +<p>So soon as I had got some of my things on, I said—</p> + +<p>'Is there a pretty view from the window?'</p> + +<p>'No,' said Madame.</p> + +<p>I looked out and saw a dreary quadrangle of cut stone, in +one side of which my window was placed. As I looked a dream +rose up before me.</p> + +<p>'This hotel,' I said, in a puzzled way. '<i>Is</i> it a hotel? Why this +is just like—it <i>is</i> the inner court of Bartram-Haugh!'</p> + +<p>Madame clapped her large hands together, made a fantastic +<i>chassé</i> on the floor, burst into a great nasal laugh like the scream +of a parrot, and then said—</p> + +<p>'Well, dearest Maud, is not clever trick?'</p> + +<p>I was so utterly confounded that I could only stare about me in +stupid silence, a spectacle which renewed Madame's peals of +laughter.</p> + +<p>'We are at Bartram-Haugh!' I repeated, in utter consternation. +'How was this done?'</p> + +<p>I had no reply but shrieks of laughter, and one of those Walpurgis +dances in which she excelled.</p> + +<p>'It is a mistake—is it? <i>What</i> is it?'</p> + +<p>'All a mistake, of course. Bartram-Haugh, it is so like Dover, +as all philosophers know.'</p> + +<p>I sat down in total silence, looking out into the deep and dark +enclosure, and trying to comprehend the reality and the meaning of all +this.</p> + +<p>'Well, Madame, I suppose you will be able to satisfy my uncle +of your fidelity and intelligence. But to me it seems that his +money has been ill-spent, and his directions anything but well +observed.'</p> + +<p>'Ah, ha! Never mind; I think he will forgive me,' laughed +Madame.</p> + +<p>Her tone frightened me. I began to think, with a vague but +overpowering sense of danger, that she had acted under the +Machiavellian directions of her superior.</p> + +<p>'You have brought me back, then, by my uncle's orders?'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page419" id="page419"></a>[pg 411]</span> + +<p>'Did I say so?'</p> + +<p>'No; but what you have said can have no other meaning, +though I can't believe it. And why have I been brought here? +What is the object of all this duplicity and trick. I <i>will</i> know. +It is not possible that my uncle, a gentleman and a kinsman, can +be privy to so disreputable a manouvre.'</p> + +<p>'First you will eat your breakfast, dear Maud; next you can +tell your story to your uncle, Monsieur Ruthyn; and then you +shall hear what he thinks of my so terrible misconduct. What +nonsense, cheaile! Can you not think how many things may +'appen to change a your uncle's plans? Is he not in danger to be +arrest? Bah! You are cheaile still; you cannot have intelligence +more than a cheaile. Dress yourself, and I will order breakfast.'</p> + +<p>I could not comprehend the strategy which had been practised +on me. Why had I been so shamelessly deceived? If it were +decided that I should remain here, for what imaginable reason +had I been sent so far on my journey to France? Why had I +been conveyed back with such mystery? Why was I removed to +this uncomfortable and desolate room, on the same floor with the +apartment in which Charke had met his death, and with no +window commanding the front of the house, and no view but +the deep and weed-choked court, that looked like a deserted +churchyard in a city?</p> + +<p>'I suppose I may go to my own room?' I said.</p> + +<p>'Not to-day, my dear cheaile, for it was all disarrange when +we go 'way; 'twill be ready again in two three days.'</p> + +<p>'Where is Mary Quince?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Mary Quince!—she has follow us to France,' said Madame, +making what in Ireland they call a bull.</p> + +<p>'They are not sure where they will go or what will do for day +or two more. I will go and get breakfast. Adieu for a moment.'</p> + +<p>Madame was out of the door as she said this, and I thought I +heard the key turn in the lock.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page420" id="page420"></a>[pg 412]</span> + +<a name="chap62"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LXII</h3> +<h2><i>A WELL-KNOWN FACE LOOKS IN</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>You who have never experienced it can have no idea how angry +and frightened you become under the sinister insult of being +locked into a room, as on trying the door I found I was.</p> + +<p>The key was in the lock; I could see it through the hole. I +called after Madame, I shook at the solid oak-door, beat upon it +with my hands, kicked it—but all to no purpose.</p> + +<p>I rushed into the next room, forgetting—if indeed I had observed +it, that there was no door from it upon the gallery. I +turned round in an angry and dismayed perplexity, and, like +prisoners in romances, examined the windows.</p> + +<p>I was shocked and affrighted on discovering in reality what +they occasionally find—a series of iron bars crossing the window! +They were firmly secured in the oak woodwork of the window-frame, +and each window was, besides, so compactly screwed +down that it could not open. This bedroom was converted into +a prison. A momentary hope flashed on me—perhaps all the +windows were secured alike! But it was no such thing: these +gaol-like precautions were confined to the windows to which I +had access.</p> + +<p>For a few minutes I felt quite distracted; but I bethought +me that I must now, if ever, control my terrors and exert whatever +faculties I possessed.</p> + +<p>I stood upon a chair and examined the oak-work. I thought +I detected marks of new chiselling here and there. The screws, +too, looked new; and they and the scars on the woodwork were +freshly smeared over with some coloured stuff by way of disguise.</p> + +<p>While I was making these observations, I heard the key +stealthily stirred. I suspect that Madame wished to surprise me. +Her approaching step, indeed, was seldom audible; she had the +soft tread of the feline tribe.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page421" id="page421"></a>[pg 413]</span> + +<p>I was standing in the centre of the room confronting her when +she entered.</p> + +<p>'Why did you lock the door, Madame?' I demanded.</p> + +<p>She slipped in suddenly with an insidious smirk, and locked +the door hastily.</p> + +<p>'Hish!' whispered Madame, raising her broad palm; and +then screwing in her cheeks, she made an ogle over her shoulder +in the direction of the passage.</p> + +<p>'Hish! be quiate, cheaile, weel you, and I weel tale you everything +presently.'</p> + +<p>She paused, with her ear laid to the door.</p> + +<p>'Now I can speak, ma chère; I weel tale a you there is bailiff +in the house, two, three, four soche impertinent fallows! +They have another as bad as themselve to make a leest of the +furniture: we most keep them out of these rooms, dear Maud.'</p> + +<p>'You left the key in the door on the outside,' I retorted; 'that +was not to keep them out, but me in, Madame.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Deed</i> I leave the key in the door?' ejaculated Madame, with +both hands raised, and such a genuine look of consternation as +for a moment shook me.</p> + +<p>It was the nature of this woman's deceptions that they often +puzzled though they seldom convinced me.</p> + +<p>'I re-ally think, Maud, all those so frequent changes and excite-ments +they weel overturn my poor head.'</p> + +<p>'And the windows are secured with iron bars—what are they +for?' I whispered sternly, pointing with my finger at these grim +securities.</p> + +<p>'That is for more a than forty years, when Sir Phileep Aylmer +was to reside here, and had this room for his children's +nursery, and was afraid they should fall out.'</p> + +<p>'But if you look you will find these bars have been put here +very recently: the screws and marks are quite new.'</p> + +<p>'<i>Eendeed!</i>' ejaculated Madame, with prolonged emphasis, in +precisely the same consternation. 'Why, my dear, they told a +me down stair what I have tell a you, when I ask the reason! +Late a me see.'</p> + +<p>And Madame mounted on a chair, and made her scrutiny with +much curiosity, but could not agree with me as to the very recent +date of the carpentry.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page422" id="page422"></a>[pg 414]</span> + +<p>There is nothing, I think, so exasperating as that sort of +falsehood which affects not to see what is quite palpable.</p> + +<p>'Do you mean to say, Madame, that you really think those +chisellings and screws are forty years old?'</p> + +<p>'How can I tell, cheaile? What does signify whether it is forty +or only fourteen years? Bah! we av other theeng to theenk about. +Those villain men! I am glad to see bar and bolt, and lock and key, +at least, to our room, to keep soche faylows out!'</p> + +<p>At that moment a knock came to the door, and Madame's nasal 'in +moment' answered promptly, and she opened the door, stealthily +popping out her head.</p> + +<p>'Oh, that is all right; go you long, no ting more, go way.'</p> + +<p>'Who's there?' I cried.</p> + +<p>'Hold a your tongue,' said Madame imperiously to the visitor, +whose voice I fancied I recognised—'<i>go</i> way.'</p> + +<p>Out slipped Madame again, locking the door; but this time she +returned immediately, bearing a tray with breakfast.</p> + +<p>I think she fancied that I would perhaps attempt to break away +and escape; but I had no such thought at that moment. She hastily +set down the tray on the floor at the threshold, locking the door +as before.</p> + +<p>My share of breakfast was a little tea; but Madame's digestion was +seldom disturbed by her sympathies, and she ate voraciously. During +this process there was a silence unusual in her company; but when her +meal was ended she proposed a reconnaissance, professing much +uncertainty as to whether my Uncle had been arrested or not.</p> + +<p>'And in case the poor old gentleman be poot in what you call stone +jug, where are <i>we</i> to go my dear Maud—to Knowl or to +Elverston? You must direct.'</p> + +<p>And so she disappeared, turning the key in the door as before. It +was an old custom of hers, locking herself in her room, and leaving +the key in the lock; and the habit prevailed, for she left it there again.</p> + +<p>With a heavy heart I completed my simple toilet, wondering +all the while how much of Madame's story might be false +and how much, if any, true. Then I looked out upon the dingy +courtyard below, in its deep damp shadow, and thought, 'How +could an assassin have scaled that height in safety, and entered +so noiselessly as not to awaken the slumbering gamester?' Then + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page423" id="page423"></a>[pg 415]</span> + +there were the iron bars across my window. What a fool had I +been to object to that security!</p> + +<p>I was labouring hard to reassure myself, and keep all ghastly +suspicions at arm's length. But I wished that my room had been +to the front of the house, with some view less dismal.</p> + +<p>Lost in these ruminations of fear, as I stood at the window +I was startled by the sound of a sharp tread on the lobby, and +by the key turning in the lock of my door.</p> + +<p>In a panic I sprang back into the corner, and stood with my +eyes fixed upon the door. It opened a little, and the black head +of Meg Hawkes was introduced.</p> + +<p>'Oh, Meg!' I cried; 'thank God!'</p> + +<p>'I guessed'twas you, Miss Maud. I am feared, Miss.'</p> + +<p>The miller's daughter was pale, and her eyes, I thought, were +red and swollen.</p> + +<p>'Oh, Meg! for God's sake, what is it all?'</p> + +<p>'I darn't come in. The old un's gone down, and locked the +cross-door, and left me to watch. They think I care nout about +ye, no more nor themselves. I donna know all, but summat more +nor her. They tell her nout, she's so gi'n to drink; they say +she's not safe, an' awful quarrelsome. I hear a deal when fayther +and Master Dudley be a-talkin' in the mill. They think, +comin' in an' out, I don't mind; but I put one think an' t'other +together. An' don't ye eat nor drink nout here, Miss; hide away +this; it's black enough, but wholesome anyhow!' and she slipt +a piece of a coarse loaf from under her apron. '<i>Hide</i> it +mind. Drink nout but the water in the jug there—it's clean spring.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Meg! Oh, Meg! I know what you mean,' said I, faintly.</p> + +<p>'Ay, Miss, I'm feared they'll try it; they'll try to make away +wi' ye somehow. I'm goin' to your friends arter dark; I darn't +try it no sooner. I'll git awa to Ellerston, to your lady-cousin, +and I'll bring 'em back wi' me in a rin; so keep a good hairt, +lass. Meg Hawkes will stan' to ye. Ye were better to me than fayther +and mother, and a';' and she clasped me round the +waist, and buried her head in my dress; 'an I'll gie my life for +ye, darling, and if they hurt ye I'll kill myself.'</p> + +<p>She recovered her sterner mood quickly—</p> + +<p>'Not a word, lass,' she said, in her old tone. 'Don't ye try to git +away—they'll <i>kill</i> ye—ye <i>can't</i> do't. Leave a' to me. It +won't be, whatever it is, till two or three o'clock in the morning. I'll + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page424" id="page424"></a>[pg 416]</span> + +ha'e them a' here long afore; so keep a brave heart—there's a +darling.'</p> + +<p>I suppose she heard, or fancied she heard, a step approaching, +for she said—</p> + +<p>'Hish!'</p> + +<p>Her pale wild face vanished, the door shut quickly and softly, +and the key turned again in the lock.</p> + +<p>Meg, in her rude way, had spoken softly—almost under her +breath; but no prophecy shrieked by the Pythoness ever thundered +so madly in the ears of the hearer. I dare say that Meg +fancied I was marvellously little moved by her words. I felt my +gaze grow intense, and my flesh and bones literally freeze. She +did not know that every word she spoke seemed to burst like +a blaze in my brain. She had delivered her frightful warning, +and told her story coarsely and bluntly, which, in effect, means +distinctly and concisely; and, I dare say, the announcement so +made, like a quick bold incision in surgery, was more tolerable +than the slow imperfect mangling, which falters and recedes and +equivocates with torture. Madame was long away. I sat down at +the window, and tried to appreciate my dreadful situation. I +was stupid—the imagery was all frightful; but I beheld it as +we sometimes see horrors—heads cut off and houses burnt—in a +dream, and without the corresponding emotions. It did not +seem as if all this were really happening to me. I remember +sitting at the window, and looking and blinking at the opposite +side of the building, like a person unable but striving to +see an object distinctly, and every minute pressing my hand +to the side of my head and saying—</p> + +<p>'Oh, it won't be—it won't be—Oh no!—never!—it could not +be!' And in this stunned state Madame found me on her +return.</p> + +<p>But the valley of the shadow of death has its varieties of +dread. The 'horror of great darkness' is disturbed by voices +and illumed by sights. There are periods of incapacity and +collapse, followed by paroxysms of active terror. Thus in my +journey during those long hours I found it—agonies subsiding +into lethargies, and these breaking again into frenzy. I sometimes +wonder how I carried my reason safely through the ordeal.</p> + +<p>Madame locked the door, and amused herself with her own + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page425" id="page425"></a>[pg 417]</span> + +business, without minding me, humming little nasal snatches +of French airs, as she smirked on her silken purchases displayed +in the daylight. Suddenly it struck me that it was very dark, +considering how early it was. I looked at my watch; it seemed +to me a great effort of concentration to understand it. Four +o'clock, it said. Four o'clock! It would be dark at five—<i>night</i> +in one hour!</p> + +<p>'Madame, what o'clock is it? Is it evening?' I cried with +my hand to my forehead, like a person puzzled.</p> + +<p>'Two three minutes past four. It had five minutes to four +when I came up-stairs,' answered she, without interrupting her +examination of a piece of darned lace which she was holding +close to her eyes at the window.</p> + +<p>'Oh, Madame! <i>Madame!</i> I'm frightened,' cried I, with a wild +and piteous voice, grasping her arm, and looking up, as shipwrecked +people may their last to heaven, into her inexorable +eyes. Madame looked frightened too, I thought, as she stared +into my face. At last she said, rather angrily, and shaking her +arm loose—</p> + +<p>'What you mean, cheaile?'</p> + +<p>'Oh save me, Madame!—oh save me!—oh save me, Madame!' +I pleaded, with the wild monotony of perfect terror, grasping +and clinging to her dress, and looking up, with an agonised +face, into the eyes of that shadowy Atropos.</p> + +<p>'Save a you, indeed! Save! What <i>niaiserie</i>!'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Madame! Oh, <i>dear</i> Madame! for God's sake, only get +me away—get me from this, and I'll do everything you ask me +all my life—I will—<i>indeed</i>, Madame, I will! Oh save me! save +me! <i>save</i> me!'</p> + +<p>I was clinging to Madame as to my guardian angel in my +agony.</p> + +<p>'And who told you, cheaile, you are in any danger?' demanded +Madame, looking down on me with a black and witchlike +stare.</p> + +<p>'I am, Madame—I am—in great danger! Oh, Madame, think +of me—take pity on me! I have none to help me—there is no +one but God and you!'</p> + +<p>Madame all this time viewed me with the same dismal stare, +like a sorceress reading futurity in my face.</p> + +<p>'Well, maybe you are—how can I tell? Maybe your uncle is + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page426" id="page426"></a>[pg 418]</span> + +mad—maybe you are mad. You have been my enemy always—why +should I care?'</p> + +<p>Again I burst into wild entreaty, and, clasping her fast, +poured forth my supplications with the bitterness of death.</p> + +<p>'I have no confidence in you, little Maud; you are little +rogue—petite traîtresse! Reflect, if you can, how you 'av always +treat Madame. You 'av attempt to ruin me—you conspire with +the bad domestics at Knowl to destroy me—and you expect me +here to take a your part! You would never listen to me—you 'ad no +mercy for me—you join to hunt me away from your house like +wolf. Well, what you expect to find me now? <i>Bah</i>!'</p> + +<p>This terrific 'Bah!' with a long nasal yell of scorn, rang in +my ears like a clap of thunder.</p> + +<p>'I say you are mad, petite insolente, to suppose I should care +for you more than the poor hare it will care for the hound—more +than the bird who has escape will love the oiseleur. I do +not care—I ought not care. It is your turn to suffer. Lie down +on your bed there, and suffer quaitely.'</p> + +<a name="chap63"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LXIII</h3> +<h2><i>SPICED CLARET</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>I did not lie down; but I despaired. I walked round and round +the room, wringing my hands in utter distraction. I threw myself +at the bedside on my knees. I could not pray; I could only +shiver and moan, with hands clasped, and eyes of horror turned +up to heaven. I think Madame was, in her malignant way, perplexed. +That some evil was intended me I am sure she was persuaded; +but I dare say Meg Hawkes had said rightly in telling +me that she was not fully in their secrets.</p> + +<p>The first paroxysm of despair subsided into another state. All +at once my mind was filled with the idea of Meg Hawkes, her +enterprise, and my chances of escape. There is one point at +which the road to Elverston makes a short ascent: there is a sudden +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page427" id="page427"></a>[pg 419]</span> +curve there, two great ash-trees, with a roadside stile between, +at the right side, covered with ivy. Driving back and +forward, I did not recollect having particularly remarked this +point in the highway; but now it was before me, in the thin +light of the thinnest segment of moon, and the figure of Meg +Hawkes, her back toward me, always ascending towards Elverston. +It was constantly the same picture—the same motion without +progress—the same dreadful suspense and impatience.</p> + +<p>I was now sitting on the side of the bed, looking wistfully +across the room. When I did not see Meg Hawkes, I beheld +Madame darkly eyeing first one then another point of the chamber, +evidently puzzling over some problem, and in one of her +most savage moods—sometimes muttering to herself, sometimes +protruding, and sometimes screwing up her great mouth.</p> + +<p>She went into her own room, where she remained, I think, +nearly ten minutes, and on her return there was that in the flash +of her eyes, the glow of her face, and the peculiar fragrance that +surrounded her, that showed she had been partaking of her +favourite restorative.</p> + +<p>I had not moved since she left my room.</p> + +<p>She paused about the middle of the floor, and looked at me +with what I can only describe as her wild-beast stare.</p> + +<p>'You are a very secrete family, you Ruthyns—you are so coning. +I hate the coning people. By my faith, I weel see Mr. Silas +Ruthyn, and ask wat he mean. I heard him tell old Wyat that +Mr. Dudley is gone away to-night. He shall tell me everything, +or else I weel make echec et mat aussi vrai que je vis.'</p> + +<p>Madame's words had hardly ceased, when I was again watching +Meg Hawkes on the steep road, mounting, but never reaching, +the top of the acclivity, on the way to Elverston, and mentally +praying that she might be brought safely there. Vain prayer +of an agonised heart! Meg's journey was already frustrated: +she was not to reach Elverston in time.</p> + +<p>Madame revisited her apartment, and returned, not, I think, +improved in temper. She walked about the room, hustling the +scanty furniture hither and thither as she encountered it. She +kicked her empty box out of her way, with a horrid crash, and +a curse in French. She strode and swaggered round the room, +muttering all the way, and turning the corners of her course +with a furious whisk. At last, out of the door she went. I think +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page428" id="page428"></a>[pg 420]</span> +she fancied she had not been sufficiently taken into confidence +as to what was intended for me.</p> + +<p>It was now growing late, and yet no succour! I was seized, I +remember, with a dreadful icy shivering.</p> + +<p>I was listening for signals of deliverance. At every distant sound, +half stifled with a palpitation, these sounds piercing my ear +with a horrible and exaggerated distinctness—'Oh Meg!—Oh +cousin Monica!—Oh come! Oh Heaven, have mercy!—Lord, +have mercy!' I thought I heard a roaring and jangle of voices. +Perhaps it came from Uncle Silas's room. It might be the tipsy +violence of Madame. It might—merciful Heaven!—be the arrival +of friends. I started to my feet; I listened, quivering with attention. +Was it in my brain?—was it real? I was at the door, and +it seemed to open of itself. Madame had forgotten to lock it; she +was losing her head a little by this time. The key stood in the +gallery door beyond; it too, was open. I fled wildly. There was +a subsiding sound of voices in my uncle's room. I was, I know +not how, on the lobby at the great stair-head outside my uncle's +apartment. My hand was on the banisters, my foot on the first +step, when below me and against the faint light that glimmered +through the great window on the landing I saw a bulky human +form ascending, and a voice said 'Hush!' I staggered back, and +at that instant fancied, with a thrill of conviction, I heard Lady +Knollys's voice in Uncle Silas' room.</p> + +<p>I don't know how I entered the room; I was there like a +ghost. I was frightened at my own state.</p> + +<p>Lady Knollys was not there—no one but Madame and my +guardian.</p> + +<p>I can never forget the look that Uncle Silas fixed on me as he +cowered, seemingly as appalled as I.</p> + +<p>I think I must have looked like a phantom newly risen from +the grave.</p> + +<p>'What's that?—where do you come from?' whispered he.</p> + +<p>'Death! death!' was my whispered answer, as I froze with +terror where I stood.</p> + +<p>'What does she mean?—what does all this mean?' said Uncle +Silas, recovering wonderfully, and turning with a withering +sneer on Madame. 'Do you think it right to disobey my plain +directions, and let her run about the house at this hour?' +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page429" id="page429"></a>[pg 421]</span> +'Death! death! Oh, pray to God for you and me!' I whispered +in the same dreadful tones.</p> + +<p>My uncle stared strangely at me again; and after several +horrible seconds, in which he seemed to have recovered himself, +he said, sternly and coolly—</p> + +<p>'You give too much place to your imagination, niece. Your +spirits are in an odd state—you ought to have advice.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, uncle, pity me! Oh, uncle, you are good! you're kind; +you're kind when you think. You could not—you could not—could +not! Oh, think of your brother that was always so good +to you! He sees me here. He sees us both. Oh, save me, uncle—save +me!—and I'll give up everything to you. I'll pray to God +to bless you—I'll never forget your goodness and mercy. But +don't keep me in doubt. If I'm to go, oh, for God's sake, shoot +me now!'</p> + +<p>'You were always odd, niece; I begin to fear you are insane,' +he replied, in the same stern icy tone.</p> + +<p>'Oh, uncle—oh!—am I? Am I <i>mad</i>?'</p> + +<p>'I hope not; but you'll conduct yourself like a sane person if +you wish to enjoy the privileges of one.'</p> + +<p>Then, with his finger pointing at me, he turned to Madame, +and said, in a tone of suppressed ferocity—</p> + +<p>'What's the meaning of this?—why is she here?'</p> + +<p>Madame was gabbling volubly, but to me it was only a shrilly +noise. My whole soul was concentrated in my uncle, the arbiter +of my life, before whom I stood in the wildest agony of supplication.</p> + +<p>That night was dreadful. The people I saw dizzily, made of +smoke or shining vapour, smiling or frowning, I could have +passed my hand through them. They were evil spirits.</p> + +<p>'There's no ill intended you; by —— there's none,' said my +uncle, for the first time violently agitated. 'Madame told you +why we've changed your room. You told her about the bailiffs, +did not you?' with a stamp of fury he demanded of Madame, +whose nasal roullades of talk were running on like an accompaniment +all the time. She had told me indeed only a few hours +since, and now it sounded to me like the echo of something +heard a month ago or more.</p> + +<p>'You can't go about the house, d—n it, with bailiffs in occupation. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page430" id="page430"></a>[pg 422]</span> +There now—there's the whole thing. Get to your room, +Maud, and don't vex me. There's a good girl.'</p> + +<p>He was trying to smile as he spoke these last words, and, with +quavering soft tones, to quiet me; but the old scowl was there, +the smile was corpse-like and contorted, and the softness of his +tones was more dreadful than another man's ferocity.</p> + +<p>'There, Madame, she'll go quite gently, and you can call if +you want help. Don't let it happen again.'</p> + +<p>'Come, Maud,' said Madame, encircling but not hurting my +arm with her grip; 'let us go, my friend.'</p> + +<p>I did go, you will wonder, as well you may—as you may wonder +at the docility with which strong men walk through the +press-room to the drop, and thank the people of the prison +for their civility when they bid them good-bye, and facilitate +the fixing of the rope and adjusting of the cap. Have you never +wondered that they don't make a last battle for life with the +unscrupulous energy of terror, instead of surrendering it so +gently in cold blood, on a silent calculation, the arithmetic +of despair?</p> + +<p>I went up-stairs with Madame like a somnambulist. I rather +quickened my step as I drew near my room. I went in, and +stood a phantom at the window, looking into the dark quadrangle. +A thin glimmering crescent hung in the frosty sky, and +all heaven was strewn with stars. Over the steep roof at the +other side spread on the dark azure of the night this glorious +blazonry of the unfathomable Creator. To me a dreadful +scroll—inexorable eyes—the cloud of cruel witnesses +looking down in freezing brightness on my prayers and agonies.</p> + +<p>I turned about and sat down, leaning my head upon my arms. +Then suddenly I sat up, as for the first time the picture of +Uncle Silas's littered room, and the travelling bags and black +boxes plied on the floor by his table—the desk, hat-case, umbrella, +coats, rugs, and mufflers, all ready for a journey—reached +my brain and suggested thought. The <i>mise en scène</i> had +remained in every detail fixed upon my retina; and how I +wondered—'When is he going—how soon? Is he going to carry +me away and place me in a madhouse?'</p> + +<p>'Am I—am I mad?' I began to think. 'Is this all a dream, +or is it real?'</p> + +<p>I remembered how a thin polite gentleman, with a tall grizzled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page431" id="page431"></a>[pg 423]</span> +head and a black velvet waistcoat, came into the carriage +on our journey, and said a few words to me; how Madame +whispered him something, and he murmured 'Oh!' very gently, +with raised eyebrows, and a glance at me, and thenceforward +spoke no more to me, only to Madame, and at the next station +carried his hat and other travelling chattels into another carriage. +Had she told him I was mad?</p> + +<p>These horrid bars! Madame always with me! The direful +hints that dropt from my uncle! My own terrific sensations!—All +these evidences revolved in my brain, and presented themselves +in turn like writings on a wheel of fire.</p> + +<p>There came a knock to the door—</p> + +<p>Oh, Meg! Was it she? No; old Wyat whispered Madame +something about her room.</p> + +<p>So Madame re-entered, with a little silver tray and flagon in +her hands, and a glass. Nothing came from Uncle Silas in ungentlemanlike +fashion.</p> + +<p>'Drink, Maud,' said Madame, raising the cover, and evidently +enjoying the fragrant steam.</p> + +<p>I could not. I might have done so had I been able to swallow +anything—for I was too distracted to think of Meg's warning.</p> + +<p>Madame suddenly recollected her mistake of that evening, and +tried the door; but it was duly locked. She took the key from +her pocket and placed it in her breast.</p> + +<p>'You weel 'av these rooms to yourself, ma chère. I shall sleep +downstairs to-night.'</p> + +<p>She poured out some of the hot claret into the glass abstractedly, and +drank it off.</p> + +<p>''Tis very good—I drank without theenk. Bote 'tis very good. +Why don't you drink some?'</p> + +<p>'I could not', I repeated. And Madame boldly helped herself.</p> + +<p>'Vary polite, certally, to Madame was it to send nothing at +all for <i>hair</i>' (so she pronounced 'her'); 'bote is all same thing.' +And so she ran on in her tipsy vein, which was loud and sarcastic, +with a fierce laugh now and then.</p> + +<p>Afterwards I heard that they were afraid of Madame, who was +given to cross purposes, and violent in her cups. She had been +noisy and quarrelsome downstairs. She was under the delusion +that I was to be conveyed away that night to a remote and safe + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page432" id="page432"></a>[pg 424]</span> + +place, and she was to be handsomely compensated for services +and evidence to be afterwards given. She was not to be trusted, +however, with the truth. That was to be known but to three +people on earth.</p> + +<p>I never knew, but I believe that the spiced claret which +Madame drank was drugged. She was a person who could, I +have been told, drink a great deal without exhibiting any +change from it but an inflamed colour and furious temper. I +can only state for certain what I saw, and that was, that shortly +after she had finished the claret she laid down upon my bed, +and, I now know, fell asleep. I then thought she was <i>feigning</i> +sleep only, and that she was really watching me.</p> + +<p>About an hour after this I suddenly heard a little <i>clink</i> in +the yard beneath. I peeped out, but saw nothing. The sound was +repeated, however—sometimes more frequently, sometimes at +long intervals. At last, in the deep shadow next the farther wall, +I thought I could discover a figure, sometimes erect, sometimes +stooping and bowing toward the earth. I could see this figure +only in the rudest outline mingling with the dark.</p> + +<p>Like a thunderbolt it smote my brain. 'They are making my +grave!'</p> + +<p>After the first dreadful stun I grew quite wild, and ran up and +down the room wringing my hands and gasping prayers to +heaven. Then a calm stole over me—such a dreadful calm as I +could fancy glide over one who floated in a boat under the +shadow of the 'Traitor's Gate,' leaving life and hope and +trouble behind.</p> + +<p>Shortly after there came a very low tap at my door; then +another, like a tiny post-knock. I could never understand why +it was I made no answer. Had I done so, and thus shown that +I was awake, it might have sealed my fate. I was standing in the +middle of the floor staring at the door, which I expected to see +open, and admit I knew not what troop of spectres.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page433" id="page433"></a>[pg 425]</span> + +<a name="chap64"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LXIV</h3> +<h2><i>THE HOUR OF DEATH</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>It was a very still night and frosty. My candle had long burnt +out. There was still a faint moonlight, which fell in a square of +yellow on the floor near the window, leaving the rest of the +room in what to an eye less accustomed than mine had become +to that faint light would have been total darkness. Now, I am +sure, I heard a soft whispering outside my door. I knew that I +was in a state of siege! The crisis was come, and strange to +say, I felt myself grow all at once resolute and self-possessed. +It was not a subsidence, however, of the dreadful excitement, +but a sudden screwing-up of my nerves to a pitch such as I +cannot describe.</p> + +<p>I suppose the people outside moved with great caution; and +the perfect solidity of the floor, which had not anywhere a creaking +board in it, favoured their noiseless movements. It was well +for me that there were in the house three persons whom it was +part of their plan to mystify respecting my fate. This alone compelled +the extreme caution of their proceedings. They suspected +that I had placed furniture against the door, and were afraid +to force it, lest a crash, a scream, perhaps a long and shrilly +struggle, might follow.</p> + +<p>I remained for a space which I cannot pretend to estimate in +the same posture, afraid to stir—afraid to move my eye from the +door.</p> + +<p>A very peculiar grating sound above my head startled me +from my watch—something of the character of sawing, only +more crunching, and with a faint continued rumble in it—utterly +inexplicable. It sounded over that portion of the roof +which was farthest from the door, toward which I now glided; +and as I took my stand under cover of the projecting angle of a +clumsy old press that stood close by it, I perceived the room a + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page434" id="page434"></a>[pg 426]</span> + +little darkened, and I saw a man descend and take his stand +upon the window-stone. He let go a rope, which, however, was +still fast round his body, and employed both his hands, with +apparently some exertion, about something at the side of the +window, which in a moment more, in one mass, bars and all, +swung noiselessly open, admitting the frosty night-air; and +the man, whom I now distinctly saw to be Dudley Ruthyn, +kneeled on the sill, and stept, after a moment's listening, into +the room. His foot made no sound upon the floor; his head was +bare, and he wore his usual short shooting-jacket.</p> + +<p>I cowered to the ground in my post of observation. He stood, +as it seemed to me irresolutely for a moment, and then drew +from his pocket an instrument which I distinctly saw against +the faint moonlight. Imagine a hammer, one end of which had +been beaten out into a longish tapering spike, with a handle something +longer than usual. He drew stealthily to the window, and +seemed to examine this hurriedly, and tested its strength with +a twist or two of his hand. And then he adjusted it very carefully +in his grasp, and made two or three little experimental +picks with it in the air.</p> + +<p>I remained perfectly still, with a terrible composure, crouched +in my hiding-place, my teeth clenched, and prepared to struggle +like a tigress for my life when discovered. I thought his next +measure would be to light a match. I saw a lantern, I fancied, +on the window-sill. But this was not his plan. He stole, in a +groping way, which seemed strange to me, who could distinguish +objects in this light, to the side of my bed, the exact position of +which he evidently knew; he stooped over it. Madame was +breathing in the deep respiration of heavy sleep. Suddenly but +softly he laid, as it seemed to me, his left hand over her face, +and nearly at the same instant there came a scrunching blow; +an unnatural shriek, beginning small and swelling for two or +three seconds into a yell such as are imagined in haunted houses, +accompanied by a convulsive sound, as of the motion of running, +and the arms drumming on the bed; and then another blow—and +with a horrid gasp he recoiled a step or two, and stood +perfectly still. I heard a horrible tremor quivering through the +joints and curtains of the bedstead—the convulsions of the murdered +woman. It was a dreadful sound, like the shaking of a +tree and rustling of leaves. Then once more he steps to the side + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page435" id="page435"></a>[pg 427]</span> + +of the bed, and I heard another of those horrid blows—and +silence—and another—and more silence—and the diabolical +surgery was ended. For a few seconds, I think, I was on the point +of fainting; but a gentle stir outside the door, close to my ear, +startled me, and proved that there had been a watcher posted +outside. There was a little tapping at the door.</p> + +<p>'Who's that?' whispered Dudley, hoarsely.</p> + +<p>'A friend,' answered a sweet voice.</p> + +<p>And a key was introduced, the door quickly unlocked, and +Uncle Silas entered. I saw that frail, tall, white figure, the +venerable silver locks that resembled those upon the honoured +head of John Wesley, and his thin white hand, the back of +which hung so close to my face that I feared to breathe. I +could see his fingers twitching nervously. The smell of perfumes +and of ether entered the room with him.</p> + +<p>Dudley was trembling now like a man in an ague-fit.</p> + +<p>'Look what you made me do!' he said, maniacally.</p> + +<p>'Steady, sir!' said the old man, close beside me.</p> + +<p>'Yes, you damned old murderer! I've a mind to do for you.'</p> + +<p>'There, Dudley, like a dear boy, don't give way; it's done. +Right or wrong, we can't help it. You must be quiet,' said the +old man, with a stern gentleness.</p> + +<p>Dudley groaned.</p> + +<p>'Whoever advised it, you're a gainer, Dudley,' said Uncle +Silas.</p> + +<p>Then there was a pause.</p> + +<p>'I hope that was not heard,' said Uncle Silas.</p> + +<p>Dudley walked to the window and stood there.</p> + +<p>'Come, Dudley, you and Hawkes must use expedition. You +know you must get that out of the way.'</p> + +<p>'I've done too much. I won't do nout; I'll not touch it. I wish +my hand was off first; I wish I was a soger. Do as ye like, you +an' Hawkes. I won't go nigh it; damn ye both—and <i>that</i>!' +and he hurled the hammer with all his force upon the floor.</p> + +<p>'Come, come, be reasonable, Dudley, dear boy. There's nothing to +fear but your own folly. You won't make a noise?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, oh, my God!' said Dudley, hoarsely, and wiped his +forehead with his open hand.</p> + +<p>'There now, you'll be all well in a minute,' continued the +old man.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page436" id="page436"></a>[pg 428]</span> + +<p>'You said 'twouldn't hurt her. If I'd a known she'd a +screeched like that I'd never a done it. 'Twas a damn lie. You're +the damndest villain on earth.'</p> + +<p>'Come, Dudley!' said the old man under his breath, but very +sternly, 'make up your mind. If you don't choose to go on, it +can't be helped; only it's a pity you began. For <i>you</i> it is a good +deal—it does not much matter for <i>me</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Ay, for <i>you</i>!' echoed Dudley, through his set teeth. 'The old +talk!'</p> + +<p>'Well, sir,' snarled the old man, in the same low tones, 'you +should have thought of all this before. It's only taking leave of +the world a year or two sooner, but a year or two's something. +I'll leave you to do as you please.'</p> + +<p>'Stop, will you? Stop here. I know it's a fixt thing now. If +a fella does a thing he's damned for, you might let him talk +a bit anyhow. I don't care much if I was shot.'</p> + +<p>'There now—<i>there</i>—just stick to that, and don't run off again. +There's a box and a bag here; we must change the direction, +and take them away. The box has some jewels. Can you see +them? I wish we had a light.'</p> + +<p>'No, I'd rayther not; I can see well enough. I wish we were +out o' this. <i>Here's</i> the box.'</p> + +<p>'Pull it to the window,' said the old man, to my inexpressible +relief advancing at last a few steps.</p> + +<p>Coolness was given me in that dreadful moment, and I knew +that all depended on my being prompt and resolute. I stood up +swiftly. I often thought if I had happened to wear silk instead +of the cachmere I had on that night, its rustle would have betrayed me.</p> + +<p>I distinctly saw the tall stooping figure of my uncle, and the +outline of his venerable tresses, as he stood between me and the +dull light of the window, like a shape cut in card.</p> + +<p>He was saying 'just to <i>there</i>,' and pointing with his long arm +at that contracting patch of moonlight which lay squared upon +the floor. The door was about a quarter open, and just as +Dudley began to drag Madame's heavy box, with my jewel-case +in it, across the floor from her room, inhaling a great breath—with +a mental prayer for help—I glided on tiptoe from the +room and found myself on the gallery floor.</p> + +<p>I turned to my right, simply by chance, and followed a long + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page437" id="page437"></a>[pg 429]</span> + +gallery in the dark, not running—I was too fearful of making +the least noise—but walking with the tiptoe-swiftness of terror. +At the termination of this was a cross-gallery, one end of +which—that to my left—terminated in a great window, through which +the dusky night-view was visible. With the instinct of terror I +chose the darker, and turned again to my right; hurrying +through this long and nearly dark passage, I was terrified by a +light, about thirty feet before me, emerging from the ceiling. +In spotted patches this light fell through the door and sides of +a stable lantern, and showed me a ladder, down which, from an +open skylight I suppose for the cool night-air floated in my face, +came Dickon Hawkes notwithstanding his maimed condition, +with so much celerity as to leave me hardly a moment for consideration.</p> + +<p>He sat on the last round of the ladder, and tightened the +strap of his wooden leg.</p> + +<p>At my left was a door-case open, but no door. I entered; +it was a short passage about six feet long, leading perhaps to +a backstair, but the door at the end was locked.</p> + +<p>I was forced to stand in this recess, then, which afforded no +shelter, while Pegtop stumped by with his lantern in his hand. +I fancy he had some idea of listening to his master unperceived, +for he stopped close to my hiding-place, blew out the candle, +and pinched the long snuff with his horny finger and thumb.</p> + +<p>Having listened for a few seconds, he stumped stealthily along +the gallery which I had just traversed, and turned the corner in +the direction of the chamber where the crime had just been +committed, and the discovery was impending. I could see him +against the broad window which in the daytime lighted this long +passage, and the moment he had passed the corner I resumed my +flight.</p> + +<p>I descended a stair corresponding with that backstair, as I am +told, up which Madame had led me only the night before. I +tried the outer door. To my wild surprise it was open. In a +moment I was upon the step, in the free air, and as instantaneously +was seized by the arm in the gripe of a man.</p> + +<p>It was Tom Brice, who had already betrayed me, and who +was now, in surtout and hat, waiting to drive the carriage with +the guilty father and son from the scene of their abhorred outrage.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page438" id="page438"></a>[pg 430]</span> + +<a name="chap65"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>CHAPTER LXV</h3> +<h2><i>IN THE OAK PARLOUR</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>So it was vain: I was trapped, and all was over.</p> + +<p>I stood before him on the step, the white moon shining on +my face. I was trembling so that I wonder I could stand, my +helpless hands raised towards him, and I looked up in his face. +A long shuddering moan—'Oh—oh—oh!' was all I uttered.</p> + +<p>The man, still holding my arm, looked, I thought frightened, +into my white dumb face.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he said, in a wild, fierce whisper—</p> + +<p>'Never say another word' (I had not uttered one). 'They +shan't hurt ye, Miss; git ye in; I don't care a damn!'</p> + +<p>It was an uncouth speech. To me it was the voice of an angel. +With a burst of gratitude that sounded in my own ears like a +laugh, I thanked God for those blessed words.</p> + +<p>In a moment more he had placed me in the carriage, and +almost instantly we were in motion—very cautiously while crossing +the court, until he had got the wheels upon the grass, and +then at a rapid pace, improving his speed as the distance increased. +He drove along the side of the back-approach to the +house, keeping on the grass; so that our progress, though swaying +like that of a ship in a swell, was very nearly as noiseless.</p> + +<p>The gate had been left unlocked—he swung it open, and remounted +the box. And we were now beyond the spell of +Bartram-Haugh, thundering—Heaven be praised!—along the +Queen's highway, right in the route to Elverston. It was literally +a gallop. Through the chariot windows I saw Tom stand as he +drove, and every now and then throw an awful glance over his +shoulder. Were we pursued? Never was agony of prayer like +mine, as with clasped hands and wild stare I gazed through the +windows on the road, whose trees and hedges and gabled cottages +were chasing one another backward at so giddy a speed.</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page439" id="page439"></a>[pg 431]</span> + +<p>We were now ascending that identical steep, with the giant +ash-trees at the right and the stile between, which my vision of +Meg Hawkes had presented all that night, when my excited +eye detected a running figure within the hedge. I saw the head +of some one crossing the stile in pursuit, and I heard Brice's +name shrieked.</p> + +<p>'Drive on—on—on!' I screamed.</p> + +<p>But Brice pulled up. I was on my knees on the floor of the +carriage, with clasped hands, expecting capture, when the door +opened, and Meg Hawkes, pale as death, her cloak drawn over +her black tresses, looked in.</p> + +<p>'Oh!—ho!—ho!—thank God!' she screamed. 'Shake hands, +lass. Tom, yer a good un! He's a good lad, Tom.'</p> + +<p>'Come in, Meg—you must sit by me,' I said, recovering all +at once.</p> + +<p>Meg made no demur. 'Take my hand,' I said offering mine +to her disengaged one.</p> + +<p>'I can't, Miss—my arm's broke.'</p> + +<p>And so it was, poor thing! She had been espied and overtaken +in her errand of mercy for me, and her ruffian father had felled +her with his cudgel, and then locked her into the cottage, +whence, however, she had contrived to escape, and was now flying +to Elverston, having tried in vain to get a hearing in Feltram, +whose people had been for hours in bed.</p> + +<p>The door being shut upon Meg, the steaming horses were +instantly at a gallop again.</p> + +<p>Tom was still watching as before, with many an anxious +glance to rearward, for pursuit. Again he pulled up, and came +to the window.</p> + +<p>'Oh, what is it?' cried I.</p> + +<p>''Bout that letter, Miss; I couldn't help. 'Twas Dickon, he +found it in my pocket. That's a'.'</p> + +<p>'Oh yes!—no matter—thank you—thank Heaven! Are we +near Elverston?'</p> + +<p>''Twill be a mile, Miss: and please'm to mind I had no finger +in't.'</p> + +<p>'Thanks—thank you—you're very good—I shall <i>always</i> thank +you, Tom, as long as I live!'</p> + +<p>At length we entered Elverston. I think I was half wild. I +don't know how I got into the hall. I was in the oak-parlour, I + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page440" id="page440"></a>[pg 432]</span> + +believe, when I saw cousin Monica. I was standing, my arms extended. +I could not speak; but I ran with a loud long scream +into her arms. I forget a great deal after that.</p> + +<a name="conclusion"></a> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h2><i>CONCLUSION</i></h2> +<p> </p> + +<p>Oh, my beloved cousin Monica! Thank Heaven, you are living +still, and younger, I think, than I in all things but in years.</p> + +<p>And Milly, my dear companion, she is now the happy wife of +that good little clergyman, Sprigge Biddlepen. It has been in +my power to be of use to them, and he shall have the next presentation +to Dawling.</p> + +<p>Meg Hawkes, proud and wayward, and the most affectionate +creature on earth, was married to Tom Brice a few months after +these events; and, as both wished to emigrate, I furnished them +with the capital, and I am told they are likely to be rich. I +hear from my kind Meg often, and she seems very happy.</p> + +<p>My dear old friends, Mary Quince and Mrs. Rusk, are, alas! +growing old, but living with me, and very happy. And after +long solicitation, I persuaded Doctor Bryerly, the best and +truest of ministers, with my dearest friend's concurrence, to +undertake the management of the Derbyshire estates. In this I +have been most fortunate. He is the very person for such a +charge—so punctual, so laborious, so kind, and so shrewd.</p> + +<p>In compliance with medical advice, cousin Monica hurried +me away to the Continent, where she would never permit me +to allude to the terrific scenes which remain branded so awfully +on my brain. It needed no constraint. It is a sort of agony +to me even now to think of them.</p> + +<p>The plan was craftily devised. Neither old Wyat nor Giles, +the butler, had a suspicion that I had returned to Bartram. Had +I been put to death, the secret of my fate would have been deposited +in the keeping of four persons only—the two Ruthyns, +Hawkes, and ultimately Madame. My dear cousin Monica had +been artfully led to believe in my departure for France, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page441" id="page441"></a>[pg 433]</span> +prepared for my silence. Suspicion might not have been excited +for a year after my death, and then would never, in all probability, have +pointed to Bartram as the scene of the crime. The +weeds would have grown over me, and I should have lain in +that deep grave where the corpse of Madame de la Rougierre +was unearthed in the darksome quadrangle of Bartram-Haugh.</p> + +<p>It was more than two years after that I heard what had befallen +at Bartram after my flight. Old Wyat, who went early to +Uncle Silas's room, to her surprise—for he had told her that he +was that night to accompany his son, who had to meet the mailtrain +to Derby at five o'clock in the morning—saw her old +master lying on the sofa, much in his usual position.</p> + +<p>'There was nout much strange about him,' old Wyat said, +'but that his scent-bottle was spilt on its side over on the +table, and he dead.'</p> + +<p>She thought he was not quite cold when she found him, and +she sent the old butler for Doctor Jolks, who said he died of +too much 'loddlum.'</p> + +<p>Of my wretched uncle's religion what am I to say? Was it +utter hypocrisy, or had it at any time a vein of sincerity in it? +I cannot say. I don't believe that he had any heart left for religion, +which is the highest form of affection, to take hold of. +Perhaps he was a sceptic with misgivings about the future, but +past the time for finding anything reliable in it. The devil +approached the citadel of his heart by stealth, with many zigzags +and parallels. The idea of marrying me to his son by fair +means, then by foul, and, when that wicked chance was gone, +then the design of seizing all by murder, supervened. I dare +say that Uncle Silas thought for a while that he was a righteous +man. He wished to have heaven and to escape hell, if there were +such places. But there were other things whose existence was not +speculative, of which some he coveted, and some he dreaded +more, and temptation came. 'Now if any man build upon this +foundation, gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, stubble, +every man's work shall be made manifest; for the day shall declare +it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall +try every man's work of what sort it is.' There comes with old +age a time when the heart is no longer fusible or malleable, +and must retain the form in which it has cooled down. 'He + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page442" id="page442"></a>[pg 434]</span> + +that is unjust, let him be unjust still; he which is filthy, let him +be filthy still.'</p> + +<p>Dudley had disappeared; but in one of her letters, Meg, writing +from her Australian farm, says: 'There's a fella in toon as +calls hisself Colbroke, wi' a good hoose o' wood, 15 foot length, +and as by 'bout as silling o' the pearler o' Bartram—only lots +o' rats, they do say, my lady—a bying and sellin' of goold back +and forred wi' the diggin foke and the marchants. His chick +and mouth be wry wi' scar o' burns or vitterel, an' no wiskers, +bless you; but my Tom ee toll him he knowed him for Master +Doodley. I ant seed him; but he sade ad shute Tom soon is +look at 'im, an' denide it, wi' mouthful o' curses and oaf. Tom +baint right shure; if I seed un wons i'd no for sartin; but +'appen,'twil best be let be.' This was all.</p> + +<p>Old Hawkes stood his ground, relying on the profound cunning +with which their actual proceedings had been concealed, +even from the suspicions of the two inmates of the house, and +on the mystery that habitually shrouded Bartram-Haugh and all +its belongings from the eyes of the outer world.</p> + +<p>Strangely enough, he fancied that I had made my escape long +before the room was entered; and, even if he were arrested, +there was no evidence, he was certain, to connect <i>him</i> with the +murder, all knowledge of which he would stoutly deny.</p> + +<p>There was an inquest on the body of my uncle, and Dr. Jolks +was the chief witness. They found that his death was caused by +'an excessive dose of laudanum, accidentally administered by +himself.'</p> + +<p>It was not until nearly a year after the dreadful occurrences +at Bartram that Dickon Hawkes was arrested on a very awful +charge, and placed in gaol. It was an old crime, committed in +Lancashire, that had found him out. After his conviction, as a +last chance, he tried a disclosure of all the circumstances of the +unsuspected death of the Frenchwoman. Her body was discovered +buried where he indicated, in the inner court of Bartram-Haugh, +and, after due legal enquiry, was interred in the +churchyard of Feltram.</p> + +<p>Thus I escaped the horrors of the witness-box, or the far +worse torture of a dreadful secret.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bryerly, shortly after Lady Knollys had described to + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page443" id="page443"></a>[pg 435]</span> + +him the manner in which Dudley entered my room, visited the +house of Bartram-Haugh, and minutely examined the windows +of the room in which Mr. Charke had slept on the night of his +murder. One of these he found provided with powerful steel +hinges, very craftily sunk and concealed in the timber of the +window-frame, which was secured by an iron pin outside, and +swung open on its removal. This was the room in which they +had placed me, and this the contrivance by means of which the +room had been entered. The problem of Mr. Charke's murder +was solved.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>I have penned it. I sit for a moment breathless. My hands are +cold and damp. I rise with a great sigh, and look out on the +sweet green landscape and pastoral hills, and see the flowers and +birds and the waving boughs of glorious trees—all images of +liberty and safety; and as the tremendous nightmare of my youth +melts into air, I lift my eyes in boundless gratitude to the God +of all comfort, whose mighty hand and outstretched arm delivered +me. When I lower my eyes and unclasp my hands, my +cheeks are wet with tears. A tiny voice is calling me 'Mamma!' +and a beloved smiling face, with his dear father's silken brown +tresses, peeps in.</p> + +<p>'Yes, darling, our walk. Come away!'</p> + +<p>I am Lady Ilbury, happy in the affection of a beloved and +noblehearted husband. The shy useless girl you have known is +now a mother—trying to be a good one; and this, the last +pledge, has lived.</p> + +<p>I am not going to tell of sorrows—how brief has been my +pride of early maternity, or how beloved were those whom +the Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. But sometimes as, +smiling on my little boy, the tears gather in my eyes, and he +wonders, I can see, why they come, I am thinking—and trembling +while I smile—to think, how strong is love, how frail is +life; and rejoicing while I tremble that, in the deathless love +of those who mourn, the Lord of Life, who never gave a pang +in vain, conveys the sweet and ennobling promise of a compensation +by eternal reunion. So, through my sorrows, I have heard +a voice from heaven say, 'Write, from hencefore blessed are the +dead that die in the Lord!'</p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page444" id="page444"></a>[pg 436]</span> + +<p>This world is a parable—the habitation of symbols—the phantoms +of spiritual things immortal shown in material shape. May +the blessed second-sight be mine—to recognise under these beautiful +forms of earth the A<small>NGELS</small> who wear them; for I am sure +we may walk with them if we will, and hear them speak!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14851 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + |